


Henry Gets a Haircut

by HoneyPot (BeepBeepBitchie)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Belch is a sporty boy and I'll protect him with my life, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake Dating, Friendship is a magical thing until you fuck it up, Henry and the Reader are at odds with each other but i s2g they really are friends, Henry is such a fuckin' Baby, Jealousy, Lil Peep's "Spotlight" and "Save That Shit" inspired most if not all of this fic, Now look where we are, Older/Senior Year Bowers Gang, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patrick is in canon 2 years older than everyone else so our bby boy is 20 in this fic, Protective and Posessive, Romantic revelations of the one sided kind, Sexual Tension anyone?, There Is Humor, This got outta hand, Underage Drinking, Vic and Reader are bffs 5ever, Vic found a liquor store and drank it, We call Patrick 'Trick' for funsies here, and finally, dank kush, now for the real tags, there is angst, there is fluff, we got all the tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepBeepBitchie/pseuds/HoneyPot
Summary: Henry gets a new haircut, the glorious mullet he had sported for years chopped off at a moments notice. You're happy with the change until it snags the attention of a local valedictorian pretty girl and it throws the group dynamic out of balance. With you and the guys forgotten, you're all tossed to the side, forcing you take the petty way out and brood behind half baked and poorly timed jabs.It's not until your best friend Victor Criss devises a plan that things heat up- and not just between you and this goody two shoes arm candy, but also with the gang's most aloof and feared member, Patrick Hockstetter.





	1. Chapter 1

The collective gasp was dramatic and a little concerned, Vic grabbing hold of your shoulder to steady himself as Henry strolled up to the group during lunch.

“Holy shit. Am I dreaming?” He asked, eyes wide but a disbelieving smile playing at his lips. “Henry, is that you?”

Henry’s cheeks flushed, and he scratched at his earlobe, eyes resting anywhere but on the four faces of shock that his friends wore.

“Yeah it’s me, quit creamin’ your pants, Criss.”

You were the first to come forward, running curious fingers through the sandy locks, mesmerized by how short they were now. It had taken years of nagging, innocent little taunts and remarks about how outdated the boys hair had been, but finally, he had cut it to a somewhat normal style. The sides were buzzed short and with a bit of a longer cut on top, styled a top his head with mousse to give it a little extra volume. Henry looked unsure, a little nervous to show his face you’d guess, he had always been defensive of his hairstyle, and you figured he might be worried that you and the others would see his as defeat instead of an image change.

“I like it. You look very handsome.” You said sweetly as he swatted your hands away.

“You saying i wasn’t handsome before?” He snapped, but the smirk that played on his lips was evidence enough that he was happy with your compliment.

“Oh god, you were hideous.” Patrick said from behind you, and you turned, eyes lifting to his mop of dark hair.

“Uh huh.” You said absently, Belch snickering from beside Vic, who both heard the nonchalant challenge in your voice. You took to Patrick, clicking your tongue and pushing long locks from his face, noticing how his jaw tightened.

“Something wrong with my hair, Princess?” He mimicked your sweet tone, taking your hand and spinning you around to pull you close so that your back hit his chest. You muffled a little laugh as he rested his chin on top of your head, chest vibrating against your back as he spoke. “I thought you liked boys with long hair? What happened to that?”

“Henry buzzed his hair, I see the light, I’m a changed woman.” You said with enough theatrics to shame a drama kid, closing your eyes with a wistful expression.

“Hmph.” The dark haired boy grunted, wrapping an arm loosely around your waist as your eyes opened again, seeing Vic run a hand across the soft fuzz of Henry’s head.

“Its a good change. I bet Carly Henderson will actually look at you now.” Vic said with a little smile, Henry snickering.

“I’ve had her twice with that glorious mane of mine. I’ll have no problem with her, mullet or not. She’s easy.”

Belch gave Henry a little side eye at the comment, but left it be, sticking his hands in his pockets. “You look good, man.”

Two weeks passed, Henry’s popularity with the girls in your grade growing by the day. Lunchtime was hell for you and the others, girl after girl coming up and trying to schmooze some attention from your friend, who was getting quite an inflated ego from it all. Vic was the first to complain, you quickly followed up as the second, but more so because you were being bothered in and out of class because  _Henry Fucking Bowers_  decided to ditch the mullet and get a nice haircut for once.

You had a few classes with the boys, but for the most part, you spent most of your time at Derry high school without them, only seeing them during gym, homeroom and lunch. Thus, you were an easy target for the female population of Derry High to hound about each and every one of them.

Usually they would ask about Patrick, Mr. Tall, Dark and Psychotic. You would be fair enough to warn those girls who had heart eyes for that boy, but rarely did they listen to you. The few that made it into Patricks romantic life ended up regretting it, not having believed how rough and handsy he could be. The boy was overwhelming, and not the least bit romantic.

You always seemed more eager to showcase Belch or Vic though, happy to pimp your sweet boys out to the masses. Vic had a certain type, however, and even when girls approached him, he sent them away more often than not. You had no idea what he was looking for, but apparently it couldn’t be found in Derry.

Belch, or Reggie as you lovingly took to call him, had grown in popularity since freshman year. He rose to stardom in various sports around school, and girls fawned over how tall and muscular he had become over the years. He was a sweet boy, with a lot of love to give, and you had successfully set him up on numerous dates. A few built on to becoming long and lasting relationships, but after a few months girls seemed to lose interest and ghost him.

You blacklisted those girls, hoping they could feel your shame eyes burning into their backs as you walked to classes.

Henry though, Henry had never been a favorite of the girls. He was crass, unbelievably rude, and you had heard plenty of girls calling him ‘ _Damaged Goods_ ’. Henry was rough around the edges, cruel nearly always, but you could never bring yourself to call him damaged goods. He was your friend, and despite being a hard headed dick sometimes, you knew that what was under that thick skin of his was a guy in need of a lot of love and acceptance.

So it was different, hearing girls ask about him. What did he like? What were his favorite movies, colors, and flavor of candy? Did he like going out on dates? What was he like outside of school?

You welcomed these questions the first few days, but eventually it became exhausting, and you addressed this at lunch one day, holding a bag of hot cheetos out for Patrick to munch on while making a point to keep eye contact with Henry.

“Dude. You gotta ask a girl out. I am begging you. For the love of god, pick one.” You said quickly, glancing around in search of the mob to come. “Please.”

“God, yes, please.” Vic agreed, leaning over and nipping a cheeto from Patrick’s fingers. He munched on it for a second before frowning. “And make sure she isn’t annoying. Don’t mess with the dynamic of the group.”

“The fuck you talking about, ‘ _The dynamic_ ’?” Henry scoffed, no lunch packed for himself that day as he chose to steal from your carefully made meal. He dipped a carrot in hummus as he looked to Belch. “You hearing this shit?”

“I am… And I agree. We already have a…” Belch paused, sipping at a coke his mother had packed for his lunch. “A set role for each of us, I guess. You, the leader,” You noticed Henry puff up a little at that, pleased to be recognized as such. “Patrick, as literal Satan. Vic, the romeo, stealing hearts wherever he goes while being the most fashionable and stable one of us. Me, the guy with the wheels who make sure you all don’t run around like lunatics. And [First Name], the queen of the bowers gang.”

“Aw.” You smacked a hand to your chest, feeling loved. “Thank you, Reggie.”

“Literal Satan?” Patrick repeated, stuffing hot cheetos on his mouth. “Really?”

“That was an understatement, you’re right.” Vic nodded, jokingly assuring Patrick, but continued where Belch left off. “Don’t get some girl who fucks that up for us, man. There’s already going to be a challenge with having two girls in a group, don’t snag a girl who wants to take over one of our roles.”

“Right- wait. You think… It would be a challenge to have another girl around?” You looked to Vic, then to Belch, who at least had the decency to look guilty. “Why?”

“You don’t play nice, Princess.” Patrick answered, stealing a swig of your lemonade and smacking his lips. “You get a little jealous when we screw around with other girls.”

“I- I do not!” You defended.

“You do.” Belch said, and Patrick gave an amused snort at your side. “My last girl backed off because of you, actually. You’re a lot for someone who doesn’t know you like we do, and, well, you’re really… Touchy feely? Handsy? Like P-”

“You better hold that thought, Reggie. I am not as handsy as Patrick.”

Henry, unimpressed and munching on another carrot, looked you dead in the eyes. “You’re worse sometimes. You get away with it better as a girl, I guess, but you kiss our cheeks, play with our hair and hug us all the time.”

“Not to mention calling us at all hours of the night.” Vic added.

“You steal my shirts and wear them to school, people thought we were dating for a solid three months at one point.” Patrick patted your arm. “Face it. You’d intimidate the hell out of any girl who dated one of us.”

You sat there for a moment, shocked to silence. Then, slowly, you took your lemonade and took a long gulp before setting it back on the table. “I’m ruining your love lives, aren’t I?”

In unison, the boys nodded. “Yep.”

“Ah fuck me. Is this why no boys ask me out? Am I unapproachable, because people think im pinning after one of you?”

“For the most part, yes.” Belch shrugged, scratching at his neck. “I keep telling the guys on the team that you’re available, but I guess they’re not hitting you up, huh?”

You groaned, resting your forehead on Vic’s shoulder. “I’m cockblocking you all and myself.”

“Huh.” Patrick said, catching your attention. “When  _was_  the last time you went out with a guy?”

You narrowed your eyes. “A long… Long time ago.”

And it was then, over a water bottle full of lemonade and at a concrete lunch table, that you decided you’d back off from the boys. They were still your guys, your best buds and secret keepers, but if you wanted to ever get laid again and have your boys do the same, you knew it was time to back off.

Just a little bit.


	2. Chapter 2

In theory, it would have been a beautiful thing. Your best friends, all happy and dating the girls (or boys, who were you to judge), and you, dating some cutie with a niche for giving you soft kisses and who would whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

The reality, however, was anything but happy.

Vic still stood strong in his fight to keep the girls at bay, happy to sit alone in his own company and watch the others flaunt their arm candy. Henry and Patrick flew to the chance to snag a girl, and within a week since your earth shattering revelation was made, they had each gotten someone. Belch took a little longer, but was starting to warm up to a nice girl from your chem class.

But you?

Well you were in solidarity with Vic, sitting next to him on a wrinkled leather couch at a house party and left to watch your other friends suck face and leave no room for jesus as they danced and grinded to a slow beat of some catchy song, the flow erotic and hip sounding as it crackled through abused speakers.

You rolled your head to face Vic, who played with a fake septum he had slipped in before you and the others picked him up for the party.

“So what’s your excuse? Why don’t you have a girl tonight?” You offered in conversation, holding the jackets of Patrick and Henry to your lap. Your painted and manicured nails picked at the studs stitched into the shoulders of Patrick’s leather jacket, scrunching your nose up in distaste as you caught a flash of Henry macking hardcore with the familiar face of Carly Henderson, who was the host of the house party and the boys current main squeeze.

“Hm?” Vic said, blinking slowly, still feeling a nice high from the joint Henry had offered the group before entering the party. He smiled slowly, following your eyes. “Oh. Jealous?”

“Not like that.” You sighed, running your fingers over the divots and leather of Patrick’s jacket, trying to distract yourself. “Just in general. Everyone else is getting lucky and I’m kinda just…”

“Stuck with me on a couch?” Vic rose an eyebrow, and you gave him a frown.

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. But yeah. I’m here on the couch, they’re going to get lucky and I’m going to suffer in the lonely loneliness of being a loner loser.”

The blond squinted, processing your words at a snail’s pace. “Dude, chill. You’ll get a guy.”

“No,” You muttered, eyes rolling to the ceiling as you scooched closer to Vic. “I’m going to finish senior year without a single date. Watch it happen, Victor. Mark my words.”

With that, Vic pushed himself up, the couch rustling in protest as he rose. “I’m getting you a fuckin’ drink.”

“Rum!” You called after him. “Lots of chaser! Wait, are you even good to wander off-”

He bobbed and weaved through the crowd, your words lost on him. You sat there for a while, song after song playing before you swore under the beat of the music, and stood, throwing on Patrick’s jacket and folding Henry’s over your arm. Vic was a ditz when high, a literal air head. He wouldn’t be returning to the couch for another hour, and even then, you were sure he’d have forgotten about the alcohol before then.

Fiddling around in the pockets of Patrick’s jacket, you pulled a few artifacts out. In your hand was tangled ball of a necklace long forgotten in his pockets, a couple loose pills that you weren’t sure if they were party drugs or his actual medication, his grim reaper lighter, and his pack of clove cigarettes.

“Bless you, you dumbass.” You praised his forgetfulness, in desperate need of a smoke to escape your own thoughts.

Stuffing everything but the lighter and the cigarettes away, you slipped into the crowd, heading for an exit. You side stepped couples and drunken teens, ignoring grunts of protests when you forced people out of the way when they covered doorways, and finally made it to the kitchen. Vic was nowhere to be found, and seeing it was the only place where alcohol was stored, you figured your hunch about him forgetting to grab the drinks was true. Snagging a loose bottle of rum off the counter, you chucked the cigarettes in another pocket of the jacket, fixing yourself a quick drink with the white rum left to sit at the bottom of the plastic bottle and forgotten orange juice resting in a pitcher on the counter.

Sipping it and satisfied with the ratio, you left the kitchen in time to avoid a pack of wasted jocks, who stampeded the beer keg as you flew out the back door, ready to drink and smoke on the back porch.

There were a few stragglers outside, mostly the more alternative kids and a few stoners. Everyone was evenly spread out, a few clustered around the pool and making small talk. Awkwardly, and with some difficulty given the jacket you carried and the drink in hand, you made an effort to wave to a few people.

They either returned the gesture, or completely ignored you and left you to your own devices. It was pretty warm outside, but you kept the jacket on nonetheless, Henry’s draped over your arm as you leaned against a post and rested your drink on the banister, pulling out the cigarettes and lighter before putting one between your lips.

The lighter took a second to catch, low on fluid, but you were able to light a glorious death stick in a moment, and took a long and well deserved drag.

You exhaled thick wisps of too-sweet smoke, enjoying the taste of the clove cigarettes nonetheless. Patrick used to smoke menthols, while everyone else usually smoke marlboros and called his taste in smokes nasty, but you had always been more than happy to share a cigarette with the lanky boy. Plus, he always had extras from no one sharking off him, so it was like you two split a pack anyhow.

“Hey.”

You turned, lifting your drink to your lips and taking a swig. Your eyes raked the boy in front of you up and down, not affected or impressed with him by much. He had to have been from another school, because you had never seen him before. With his box-dyed black hair, medusa piercing and nose ring, he looked like he would be a residential ‘edgy boy’ of a primarily preppy community. The studded jacket, similar to Patrick’s you thought with amusement, and torn up shirt only made your assumption grow, as did the dirty combat boots he wore and the arrangement of ear piercings that glinted under the soft outside lighting.

“Hi.” You nodded, putting your drink back down and taking another puff of your smoke. You watched him, judged him, and wondered what his next move would be.

“Never seen you around.” He started casually, tilting his head back, dark eyes giving you a once over before he pulled his lips into a smirk.

You decided very quickly that you didn’t like that smirk.

“I’m around.” You breathed smoke in his direction, watching as he didn’t flinch away, but moved closer.

Flicking ash from your cigarette, you straighten up from the post, wary of how closely he advanced.

“What’s your name?” He asked, voice thick, a little husky. “Name’s Grant.”

“Ain’t that a cute name?” You sidestepped him, drink left forgotten as you pressed the cigarette back to you lips. “Name’s [Last Name].”

“[Last Name]? Nah, gimmie your first name, sweetheart.” Grant breathed, making the mistake of reaching out and brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

You spit smoke, like an enraged dragon, and caught his hand. “Don’t. You wanna be friendly? Try someone else. I’m not in the mood.”

“Aren’t you?” He flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, wetting it as his eyes danced. “You’re all alone, drinking by yourself? At a party? Don’t you want company, baby?”

He curled his other hand closer, making an advance on your waist. His fingertips brushed your stomach, and you felt a jolt of both disgust and immediate fear from the gesture.

“Dude.” You gave a last warning, throwing his wrist away from you and jumping back. “Drop it, I fucking mean it.”

Retreating, an act that in it of itself you despised, you went back inside, dropping your cigarette in a forgotten soda can and hurrying to leave the kitchen. It sizzled loudly, the music and the sound of advancing footsteps following you as you rounded the kitchen and waded through the dining room. You felt his eyes on you as you weaved between your fellow classmates, eyes searching heads to find one of the boys.

You spotted Vic first, who danced in between two girls with a glaze to his eyes, but that all dropped when you snatched his shoulder and jerked him away.

“Whoa-” He steadied himself on you, and you were surprised to smell the reek of alcohol on his breath.

“Seriously? How the hell are you drunk, you’ve been gone all but fifteen minutes.”

Wobbly, but with a grin, he answered. “Shots, man. They’re doing them in the dining room. I had… this many…”

He held up both hands, eight fingers raised.

“Wait.” He held the last two up. “This many. And one more, but it was like, half of someones rum and coke so it doesn’t count-”

You groaned, glancing behind you and catching the swift gaze of Creepy Grant, his eyes glinting with thinly veiled mischief.

“Great, you’re tipsy right now but all that shit is gonna hit you in like ten minutes. Congrats on getting shit faced.” You pulled him from his dancing companions, who whined after your retreating forms.

“Wooo!” Vic slurred, leaning heavily on you as you parted the crowd, using him as a weight to barrel through people.

It didn’t take long to reach Henry, who you happily grabbed by the elbow and jerked from a passionate embrace.

“The fuck-” Henry raised a fist, ready to throw hands with some punk, but found you and a soon to be wasted Vic on your arm. “What.”

“He drank a lot. There’s some creepy guy following me. Fix that mess while I take him to the restroom, he drank ten shots and half a rum and coke, apparently. I see chunks in our future.”

Giggling, Vic enveloped you in a hug, nuzzling your head with his own.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, Princess.” He drawled, holding you to him.

“Very near future.” You pressed, mouth forming a thin line as your eyes sought Henry. “Seriously man, help a little here.”

Carly Henderson fixed her hair, peering over the crowd in search of this mystery stalker. They landed on someone, and she registered a look of familiarity. “Grabby Grant?”

“Oh my god that’s so much better than what I named him, but yeah.” You allowed Vic to curl into your neck, his breath tickling your throat.

Henry’s eyes sifted through the faces as well, stopping and pointing to someone. “That guy?”

You glanced in the direction he pointed, finding him to have picked Grant out of a crowd expertly. “Yep. He tried to touch me and when I told him to fuck off he kept coming. I bailed, and now here we are.”

You watched Henry’s eyes narrow, lip curling at your words. He straightened himself, eyes never leaving the crowd.

“Go, get Vic to a bathroom before he spews, and one of us i’ll find you guys.” Henry left then, snatching his jacket and throwing it on, wading through the crowd with a vicious look.

Carly sighed, scratching her temple with a frown before she set on you with a clearly irritated glare.

“Surprised you fought him off. He seems like your type.”

Carly ran a manicured hand through her long ebony locks, storming away and leaving you both confused and with flushed cheeks.

“What a bitch.” Vic huffed, and immediately swung you in time with himself, humming along to the lyrics of the song. He wanted to dance, but you had other plans, and as you tossed aside your muddled emotions, you dragged him away from the crowds, hauling his sloppy ass up the stairs as he sang along to the lyrics of some Lil Peep song.

“I can make you rich, I can make you rich,” He drawled, in tune despite his drunkenness. The alcohol was hitting him hardcore now, that much was obvious. “I can make you this…”

He droned on and on, attracting a few looks, but you ignored them as you brought him to the master bathroom, which was blessedly devoid of others. Then again, Carly had made it clear that no one was supposed to go into the master, but she wasn’t exactly in your good graces, so who were you to listen in the heat of the moment?

So the master bathroom is where Patrick found the two of you, Vic emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet while you sat beside him and rubbed his back. You made the effort to wet a washcloth earlier, hoping it would soothe the heat he was emitting from his sticky skin.

“What the fuck happened to him?” Patrick gestured vaguely to the poor boy, and you noticed the forest of hickeys on his pale neck. Smeared lipstick could be found there too, but you forced yourself not to care, returning your attention back to Vic.

“This dumbass drank like ten shots and had half a coke and rum.”

Patrick couldn’t help the little snicker that your words brought, but he bent down, patting between Vic’s shoulder blades and offering a remorseful smirk.

“You’re gonna be death tomorrow, kiddo.”

“Fuck you.” Vic rasped, flushing the toilet before unloading another wave of vomit into the once pearly white bowl.

Patrick practically cackled, straightening and nodding at you. “Jacket.”

You pulled it off, handing it over and running a comforting hand through Vic’s blond locks. They had stuck to his forehead from sweat, but you applied a damp and cool wash cloth to his forehead and he moaned in thanks.

“Henry dealt with some bitch you complained about, Belch was helping him beat the fucker last time I saw them, I only caught word because Carly came up and complained about Henry ghosting her.” The dark haired boy tugging out his pack of cigarettes, sitting on the edge of the tub and tapping the pack against his palm.

He stuck a smoke between his lips, lighting it on the first try and inhaling deeply. The room filled with the scent of lavender from the handsoap on the counter and the sweet cloves, the smell comforting you some but disgusting Vic.

He leaned heavily against the toilet bowl, rolling to your touch. “I feel like shit.”

“Really? Wouldn’t have guessed.” Patrick said with little consideration, chuckling as smoke escape his mouth.

You took toilet paper, wiping at the blonds mouth and allowing him to rest himself against you. The cloth brushed his cheeks and mouth as you tried to cool him down further, and he gave a quiet sigh of relief.

There was silence, only the muffled and barely there beat of the music from downstairs to be heard between Patrick’s drags and Vic’s exhausted breathing. Finally, Patrick broke it, eyeing the two of you with an unreadable expression.  
“So. How’s the whole anti-cockblock thing going for you?”

You frowned. “I’m dateless and taking care of my drunk friend at a party. It’s not going great, but it ain’t too bad, I suppose.”

“She was jealous.” Vic confessed, voice thin. “All night, jealous.”

“Oh, do tell.” Patrick smirked, and you felt your nostrils flare in irritation.

“Not like that, just, annoyed. Envious, not jealous. Jealousy is when you’re worried someone will take what you have. Envy is when you want what someone has. I don’t have anyone to take,” You paused, letting lose a soft sigh. “Therefore, envy.”

“Deep.” Patrick offered uselessly. You snorted a laugh, finding humor in that particular moment. Vic curled close against you, closing his eyes and resting his strength.

It wasn’t long before Belch and Henry found you, the latter with bruised knuckles and the former with a concerned expression.

“What’d he do, [First Name]?” Belch came to your side.

“Drank a lot.”

“No, not Vic. I could guess that already, what’d that bastard do?” He waved off Vic’s predicament, crouching down to get to your eye level. “We decked him and roughed him up, told him not to come back, but what did he do?”

“Just… Tried to touch me, he called me gross names and just,” You squirmed. “Made me feel uncomfortable.”

“He was hitting on you?” Patrick clarified, raised an eyebrow, his cigarette long finished. Despite how he worded his question, you heard confusion and a tail end of concern in his tone.

“Did you tell him to stop?” Belch ignored Patrick, easing Vic off you and pulling the blond up.

“Yeah. like twice. He followed me into the party even after I told him to fuck off.” You rised with Vic, and Belch’s expression darkened.

“Lets go, lets get you and Vic home. Tonights been enough of a shit show, don’t need him blowing chunks down the hall.” He led the weak kneed blond out, Patrick following up beside you as you trailed after him and Henry.

The drive home was quiet, and you noticed how Henry’s eyes wandered to you from the rear view mirror. It was odd to see worry there, instead of his natural indifference, and even Patrick was more off than normal. Getting Vic inside was a nightmare, but at least it was agreed on that he would stay with you for the night.

Patrick helped you lug him up the stairs, Henry and Belch left to make awkward small talk with your parents, who were more so relieved to see you home in one piece than bothered that you were out with a bunch of punkass teens.

You lowered Vic onto your bed with Patrick’s grip tight on his arms, taking his vans off and draping a blanket over him.

“Rest up sleeping beauty.” Patrick whispered, earning a clumsy smack on the leg from Vic, who rolled into your fortress of blanket and pillows with a grunt.

You collected a bucket from under the bathroom sink, set it by the bed, and walked Patrick out of your room and to the tops of the stairs.

“I’m exhausted, tell the guy’s I’m going to sleep or whatever. I’ll see you kids tomorrow.” You said, voice strained and the promise of sleep sounding absolutely perfect in that moment.

“Will do…” Patrick turned to go, but hesitated, swiveling to face you. “Next time… Next time someone fucks with you, come to me. It’s not just Henry and Belch with the muscle. I could have done something, and I would have done something, you know that, right?”

You frowned, and reached to brush his arm, hoping he found the gesture comforting. “I know that. I just couldn’t find you, Pat.”

His eyes, bright even in the limited lighting of your second story, searched your own. Finally, he reached out himself, but chose to push a lock of hair behind your ear.

“‘Kay then Princess, sweet dreams.”

Quickly, as if the touch had burned him, he pulled away and headed down the stairs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

You watched him go before returning to the bedroom, closing the door softly until it clicked closed, padding to the bed and sitting on the edge Vic had not yet occupied.

You kicked off your shoes, remembering what Carly Henderson had said to you.

“He seems like your type.”

You undressed, throwing a nightshirt on and crawling in bed, Vic finding you through the mess of blankets and pillows, thin arms wrapping tight around you. His breath was sweet with the smell of alcohol, the perfume of your dreams for the night you supposed, but the sounds of his quiet slumbering led to you sleep in what seemed like no time.

You dreamt of Patrick that night.


	3. Chapter 3

You stirred in your sleep, eyes fluttering open and lazily finding Vic, his arm curled around your waist and holding you close. Vaguely, your dream surfaces in your mind, all arching backs, sweaty strands of black hair and grey-green eyes that burned like fire as pale fingers dusted across your stomach.

The memories themselves sour your morning, and you shift uncomfortably, Vic cracking open his eyes and squinting in the mid-morning sunlight that filtered through your curtains.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, eyes rolling as his lids shut tight. His nose crinkled, and he winced. “Headache.”

“Hangover.” You corrected, pushing back greasy hair from his face. “Take a shower, you’ll feel better.”

He groaned quietly, but sluggishly removed himself from the bed, the weight of his arm leaving you as he moved from your side.

The blond stepped over discarded articles of clothing, not bothering to comment on the bras or underwear tossed to the floor, and he opens your closest, leaning heavily on the doorframe while he flipped a switch to see inside the dark alcove.

“You have quite the collection.” He said airly as you rolled to snag your phone from the nightstand, unplugging it from the charger. “Do you have a shirt from every one of us?”

“Pretty much, more or less.” You rasped, voice still a little coarse from sleep. “There’s a pair of your underwear in my drawers, from when I borrowed it last summer.”

“Thank god you’re shit at giving back clothes.” Vic tugged at the neck of his shirt, sniffing the collar and gagging. “I smell like cheap liquor, vomit and ‘Tricks nasty ass cigarettes. Gross.”

“Take a shower.” You repeated, tapping your passcode in and feeling your stomach flip when you saw a few missed texts from Belch and Patrick. “Patrick crashed at Reggie’s last night, they’re picking up Henry from Carly’s… Weird. They’ll be here in like thirty minutes to grab us for…”

You checked the time, finding it to be a little before ten in the morning. “For breakfast.”

Grunting in acknowledgement, Vic collected various garments that belong to him, heading out your bedroom and passing by your dad. “‘Sup, Mr.[Last Name].”

You father, barely phased, greeted him with a touch too much of enthusiasm for the morning time. “Good morning, Victor!” He called after him, and you knew the volume just had to have had Vic’s head spinning.

Quickly poking his head in, your dad greeted you with a smile. “Morning, sweetheart. Did you and Vic sleep well?”

Responding to Belch’s texts, avoiding Patrick’s for the sake of your crumbling sanity, you gave a short reply. “Yeah. He’s hungover though, don’t shout.”

“Oh,” Your father’s voice lowered to near a whisper. “Tell him I’m sorry…”

“Dad. Just, tell him yourself before we leave. We’re going to breakfast with the guys. Normal saturday stuff, y’know?”

“Right, just be home before midnight, sweetheart.” He parted with a token dad grin, eyes twinkling as he walked off, his footsteps on the wooden flooring echoing as he went to his office.

You bit your lip, shutting off the screen to your phone and staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. There were countless plastic glow in the dark stars stuck up there, some fading yellow, others pastel pink or neon blue. You had put those up there ages ago, when you were still in grade school and makeup skills or liking boys were as foreign to you as eastern Asia. Back then it was just you and Vic, two rich kids only just starting to make trouble in West Broadway and catching the attention of Henry Bowers and Reggie “Belch” Huggins.

It was all fun and games at first, but of course as the years went on, Henry went from smacking lunch trays or tugging braids to pulling out the big guns. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t bother you, how antagonistic your friend was, how cruel, but too much of you was more than happy to overlook it all. It was maybe seventh grade when Henry smacked his last lunch tray and decided he wanted to up the ante, to show just what he could be capable of.

Belch followed behind Henry, dutifully like a best friend should, and Vic was eager to prove himself to the toughest kid in Derry by any means necessary, even if it meant roughing up some kid for no reason other than that he looked at the gang just a little too wrong. Henry, surprisingly, was fine with your presence, even from the start. Sure, you stood on the sidelines and watched, but Henry and Vic were always quick to point out that you were the official look out for when things got real heated back when Henry really began to show his stripes. You offered aid in their antics rarely, and if they got a little bruised up after a fight, you were the one waiting with a bandaid and a pat on the back.

Henry thought that was enough for a while, you, him, Belch and Vic. A ragtag crew, a good mix.

Then he came face to face with Patrick Hockstetter.

You knew  _of_  Patrick, but had never met him at that point. He never shared the same grade school classes as you, and you heard once that he got held back twice in sixth grade. The rumor made sense, because when the day came that Henry brought Patrick, this genuinely spooky boy with greasy dark hair and eyes that shined with something unreadable, to meet the rest of the group, you were quick to note how much older he seemed in comparison to you and the others.

Henry talked him up for days, amping you and the others up for his newest addition to the crew. Patrick kept his distance at first, eyeing you all with a fixation you couldn’t quite understand, until he slowly integrated himself into the gang.

He became Henry’s main man for a while, teaching Henry how to get the most out of his torments. Vic would admit his apprehension of Patrick joining the group when it was just you two, alone and cuddled up in your bed under a sky of glowing plastic stars, he would ask if you felt the same, but you just shrugged it off.

“Give him time. He’ll grow on us, y’know? Or he wont, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

Time passed, and he did in fact grow on the both of you, all of you. Patrick was a strange kid, mysterious and private, a little too handsy sometimes, but you nipped that in the bud before eighth grade began. You could tell he was new to the whole “Friendship” thing, and despite Henry considering him a made man of the Bowers Gang upon his joining, you took the time and put in the effort to get to know Patrick.

It was difficult. He would leave you hanging for days at a time on questions, or not bother to answer at all. He didn’t like reading, he said anything but cartoons bored the shit out of him, and his one true passion just seemed to be causing pain.

Patrick was a god damn enigma until freshman year, the year you put your foot down and demanded that Patrick Hockstetter would open up to you, that he would put forth some energy in maintaining a relationship with you outside of seeing you as the token female of the group.

You started sitting next to him in your shared classes, at lunch, and in the Trans-Am once Belch got his permit. You offered to buy him snacks, you listened to any and all music he offered to recommend to the group and came back the next day with an essay spilling out of your mouth about why or why not you enjoyed it.

You picked up novels for him, reading them outloud by bonfires you and the guys started on Belch’s property. Stephen King was a real crowd pleaser, Patrick always focused on you when you read his famous works. You edited his homework, visited his house with Vic and Henry when Belch started wrestling, and made a point to snag him cds from record stores if you thought he might like the music.

By spring of sophomore year, he was reaching out to you more. It was small at first, but the little sprint he would make to catch up to you if you were off to classes, or the random trinkets he’d hand to you at lunch (ranging from stolen pins, scarves from the lost and found, gel pens of your favorite colors, and old coins he found at home in his dad’s collection) really encouraged you take a moment and pat yourself on the back.

You were doing it, like a hopeful human, you were getting the stray cat to warm up to you.

He stopped by your house more, invited you to join him at church when his parents dragged him there, and he began to be a comfortable shadow in your life.

Some time, since freshman year and now, you two had finally clicked. You were finally friends, best friends almost- Though Vic was surely your most treasured and loved friend, but Patrick had begun to become a close rivalling second.

You could touch him now, you found yourself poking his sides with little knowing grins, and resting your chin on his shoulder. He seemed reached for you always, fingertips ghosting your knee or wrist, pulling you to his chest and keeping a loose arm around your waist.

Always hands on. Always a constant in your life.

You had secrets with Patrick, spoken in whispers with clove cigarettes between nimble fingers. He knew so much, god, too much. Almost as much as Vic, and Vic has been with you since diapers.

And you realized, laying in bed as you heard the shower turn on, that you didn’t want to share those secrets with anyone else.

Defeated, feeling your stomach twist and pinch, you finally got what Carly meant.

_“He seems like your type.”_

Of course Grabby Gabe seemed like your type. He was a crap emulation of someone else you knew. Someone with dark hair, eyes like fire, and a silvertongue.

He was like Patrick.

“The humanity.” You scoffed to no one, rising finally and heading to the hall bathroom.

You opened the door without a care, Vic poking a head put to scrutinize you.

“Can a man have some privacy?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You replied, turning on the sink and running your toothbrush under the tap before applying a liberal amount of toothpaste.

He rolled his eyes, zipping the shower curtain back in place and popping open the cap on a shampoo bottle.

You brushed your teeth, staring at the state of your face. Yesterday’s eyeliner would surely become todays smokey eye, mascara a little crumbly, but you could fix that with ease. You hair was fine, not greasy at all, but it sure as hell needed a brush to be run through it.

You didn’t look half bad, and once you spit the gunk from your mouth and gurggled some mouthwash, you set to brushing your hair. Vic hummed in the shower, a song you knew by the beat, but couldn’t care to remember the lyrics too. If it wasn’t for the cloud in your mind from your earlier thoughts, you would have realized how nice the day was starting off, with your best friend singing in the shower and you getting ready for a nice breakfast date with your other best friends.

But alas, all you could really think of was how you’d be able to hide your thoughts from Patrick. He had always been a whiz at picking up on your emotions, teasing and taunting you if you were in a bad mood, and trying his best at offering silence and a pat on the back if you were feeling down. How would he, how could he react, if he picked up on the bullshit running around your mind that particular morning?

You exhaled sharply through your nose at that thought, brushing your hair and shaking it loose for a laid back style.

Shit like this happened all the time in friend groups, you reasoned. If it hadn’t been Patrick, maybe you would have developed feelings for Henry, Belch, or even Vic. You could get past it, you knew you could, it was all a matter of time before those feelings faded and all would be at peace again.

It was no big deal.

…Right?

Right.

“I’m going to change and do my makeup.” You said loudly, hoping Vic would hear you as you left the bathroom.

“M’Kay!” He called, his voice finding you even behind the door you shut and the length of the hall you passed before reaching your room.

Twenty minutes later you sat on your front porch, gently pushing the bench swing you and Vic sat on with the tip of your converse, waiting for a familiar blue Trans-Am to appear. Vic lazily rested against you, a pair of your sunglasses resting over his eyes, still feeling the after effects of his wild night.

“I want coffee and the souls of the unborn.” He muttered, letting loose a disgusted noise as you laughed at him.

“I wish you could see your face right now, Dude.” You snickered, biting back more laughter when he set on you with a nasty little frown.

“I barely remember last night. How much did I actually drink?”

“Oh,” You clicked your tongue. “About ten shots and half a rum and coke.”

“Why.” He groaned, voice laced with so much desperation that it almost hurt. “Why am I fuckin’ like this.”

“I ask myself the same thing everyday, but I’m pretty sure its because im eighty-five percent of your impulse control, and you wandered away from me, like a dumbass.”

He grunted in agreement as a roar rang down the street, your favorite vehicle clambering to your curbside and sitting idle, waiting for you and Vic.

You tugged the blond alongside you, and he repositioned his sunglasses as you made your way across the front lawn, watching the passenger side door open and Henry duck out the car. He waved in greeting, then turned to peel back the passenger seat, where, to your great surprise, Patrick emerged.

You rose an eyebrow, slowing as you approached, noticing how dark and malicious the aforementioned boy’s eyes looked. You felt relief to realize they weren’t for you when you saw them fall on Henry, and then slowly came to understand why Patrick was emitting a distinctly murderous aura that morning when Carly Henderson edged out of the car after Patrick.

Her high tops hit the grass of your lawn and you officially deemed it cursed and barren land, Vic twisting his head to look at you.

“What the fuck?” He said, very loudly, very noticeably, because he was an idiot. An idiot you agreed with, but an idiot nonetheless.

Patrick leaned against the car, running a tongue against the tops of his teeth, a tick you knew he only had when he was positively fed up.

“Yeah, Bowers,” Oh, he was using ‘Bowers’ instead of  ‘Henry’? Not a good sign. “What the fuck?”

Henry snapped at Patrick like a rabid dog. “Can it, Hockstetter. Vic, [First Name], car. Now. We’re gonna get breakfast, and Carly’s comin’. Got it?”

The venom in his voice was palpable, and you smacked your lips, herding Vic to the car. “Got it.”

Vic scrambled inside, bumping his head in his rush to situate himself correctly, and you followed after. Patrick trailed after you, stepping inside the vehicle and scooching close, poor Vic left to press half his body up against the side of the car, his legs and thigh awkwardly hanging over your own as you all made room for Carly.

You watched, a little horrified, as Henry helped his girl into the car, even going as far to hold her hand as she plopped down right beside Patrick with enough leg room and ass room that you felt a little jealous.

Patrick squeezed closer to you, disgust evident as Henry propped his seat back into place.

“I cant fuckin’ breathe.” Vic said to the car as Henry buckled himself in. “[First Name]. Please, come on.”

You knew what he wanted, the request was already on your mind the moment you squished him against the window upon getting in. You debated for a moment, but figured it was for the good of the group (read as: Vic) and rolled your eyes skyward.

“Oh for fucks sake.” You muttered, and crawled into Patrick’s lap, allowing Vic to actually have some breathing room.

The blond let out a thankful sound, buckling himself up properly as Patrick wrapped lean arms around you and held you close, as if he was your own personal seatbelt.

“Mornin’, Princess.” He said with little emotion, but you still felt a heat hit your cheeks as he brushed hair over your shoulder and curled a chin against the crook of your neck.

“Morning.” The response was short and clipped, and you eyed Carly as she scrolled through her phone, perfectly manicured nails putting your own streaky and flaked set to shame.

She had never really been an issue for you, Carly Henderson was in a league of her own, her popularity rivalling Gretta Bowie’s and her position as the class valedictorian left little to compare between the two of you. She hadn’t thought you worth her time, and you felt the same. You crossed paths offhandedly enough, but neither of you had really made an impression on the other. You werent friends, just peers. You had liked it that way.

Henry had fawned after her for years though, much to your hidden annoyance. You could see why he liked her though, all big grey eyes and ox straight black hair, with flawless pale skin and long lashes. She was just the right height for Henry, her head hitting his chin, and she had a figure that Henry would certainly fantasize about.

She hit all his boxes, but, and you hated to think this, you couldn’t understand why Henry would hit any of hers.

She had dated Cole Harris, Dylan Pram, and a few other boys. Preppy guys, with scholarships and decently squeaky clean records. They were the type to pick her up from class and take her out to get a milkshake, buy her gifts, carve her name into a tree and tell her she was their everything. They were run of the mill pussy jocks.

But Henry was a rough guy. Cuts and bruises, with a record in the shitter and his graduation hanging by a thread. If it hadn’t been for some serious moral ass kicking you and Vic made against him and Patrick junior year, you wondered if he would even be walking with a diploma soon. He was an ass, hard headed, and mean.

You knew your glare was lasting a tad bit too long when Belch cleared his throat, catching your attention.

Big brown eyes wordlessly pleaded with you to behave, and you relaxed against Patrick, resting your arms comfortably over his own in submission, wanting to keep the peace as much as Belch did.

“So,” The crew cut jock said, drumming fingers as he stopped at a red light. “Any music recommendations?”

“Silence.” Vic hummed from the back, lethargic and playing dead.

“New Order?” You offered, and patted your pockets to find your phone, eager to plug it in the the AUX, the distraction of music welcomed.

Patrick dug into your pocket for you, retrieving the phone and typing in your passcode. You allowed him to scroll through your spotify, hoping he would keep your choice in music. You were happy to see him tap on ‘ _Bizarre Love Triangle_ ’ and took the phone from his grasp, leaning forward and giving it to Henry.

“Gross. Your shitty new wave sucks.” He complained, but you felt a little satisfied when he plugged it in despite his whining, and gave a tiny winning smile to the rear view mirror.

A couple seconds passed, and you hummed softly to the lyrics, Belch driving on as Carly lifted her head up, brows furrowed.

“The hell is this? Techno? Gross.” She practically whined, and you felt Patrick’s grip dig into your waist.

You squeezed his wrist in warning, and he dropped his head back to let loose an irritated huff.

“Its fuckin’ music, Henderson. Sorry that it ain’t something you’d fuckin’ like, but seniority takes priority over-”

“Man I’m fucking tired!” Vic practically yelled, drowning out whatever else Patrick said. You shot him a thankful expression as he continued. “How long until we get to the diner?”

“Not soon enough.” Belch almost whispered, turning down familiar streets as Henry flipped around in his seat to glare daggers at your personal seat belt.

The car remained positively silent the rest of the ride, Carly quick to realize that complaining wasn’t going to get her anywhere, and Patrick too lost in his own crappy temperament to do much else besides stew in his newfound hatred for the valedictorian of Derry High.

Getting inside the diner, you nearly ran to the back room, where the booths still allowed smoking and the coffee refills were free. Vic was on your tail, and you all piled into a crappy and lumpy booth like you had every Saturday morning since sophomore year. The ambiance took some getting used too, all dark wood and barely there windows, which peeked dull and soft morning light across roughly mopped checkered flooring. There were anchors on the walls, mismatched alongside various license plates and the other knick knacks or odd trinkets that were held near and dear to the owners heart. A talking fish plaque screeched an incoherent and warbled version of Elvis Presley’s “ _Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog_ ” as you went to sit, and a wave of familiarity washed over you at the sound.

Henry corralled Carly at this side, Belch sitting beside her, followed by Patrick, yourself and lastly Vic, you hung off the edge of the table and rested his forehead against the linoleum lined surface. Carly’s lip curled as she set delicate hands on the counter, noticing how sticky the decades of nicotine abuse and spilt coffee had made the surface.

You ignored her, liken to Patrick to pulled out his cigarettes in a flash, offering you one as quickly as he could open the pack. You took what was offered, letting him fumble with his jacket pockets before he found his lighter, a waitress waltzing over with a knowing smile.

“Morning, kids.” She said sweetly, getting out her pad of paper and pen, clicking it and readying herself for your orders, the four of you having memorized the menu and what you liked long ago.

“Hey Diane.” Belch smiled wide, nodding at Carly. “We need a menu today, But I’ll take a glass of orange juice.”

“Sure, sweetie.” The older woman, blonde hair weathered grey by age and stress of her job, pulled a spare menu from her apron, the laminated paper only having two sides, showcasing the limited but mouthwatering choices the diner had.

“Lemonade.” Henry said, hooking an arm around Carly’s waist. “What do you want, Princess?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but bristled when Carly answered, and felt your tongue prod your cheek when Henry’s eyes landed on her, and not yourself.

“I’ll have ice water, with lemon.” She said daintily, and you held your cigarette against your lips, feeling fury build.

“Right, and you, [First Name]?” Diane looked to you as Patrick lit his cigarette, inhaling deep and desperate puffs.

“Coffee please, and a small glass of apple juice. Vic wants coffee, ‘Trick will get coffee and a glass of water too.”

You offered a strained smile as Diane rose an eyebrow, your irritation quite obvious to the waitress.

“I’ll come back with your drinks and take your meal orders, kids.”

She took off, leaving you to twist and turn to Patrick. Insync, like magic almost, he perked up, leaning close and taking the lit end of his cigarette to yours. You sucked on the filter, taking heavy drags until your end glowed, the two of you parting then, each exhaling sweet smoke and sighing in unison.

Carly flipped over the menu a few times, reading and rereading the same things as Vic laid dormant at your side and Patrick took drag after drag.

“Is there,” She started, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Is there nothing on the menu that’s not swimming in grease and smothered in gravy?”

“Egg white omelette, ask for tomatoes, spinach and cheddar cheese. Get a side of fruit, you’ll get melon, grapes, oranges and strawberries. Boom.” You said, lacking the enthusiasm to care, only really wanting to have Carly shut her trap and give you the peace and quiet to deserved.

“Oh. That sounds nice, actually.” She replied, which you guessed was as close to a thank you as you were going to receive.

Carly set the menu down, tapping her nails against its surface and surveying her audience. You took a second to glance at Patrick, and nudged him when you found his eyes burning holes in the girls head.

“Knock it off chucklefuck.” You said quietly, Diane bustling over with a tray of drinks.

Patrick snorted a laugh, flicking ash into the ashtray provided at the table, which he tugged forward as the waitress began dueling out drinks.

“Well,” She said once she had given everyone their drink. “Whats on the table, hm?”

“Short stack, side of extra  _extra_  bacon.” Belch said, and took a sip of his drink. “Please bring me scrambled egg, too.”

Henry rubbed at his nose, leaning back against the booth cushions. “My usual. Eggs, sausage and hashbrowns.”

Diane didn’t need to ask for clarification on what type of eggs, the only two at the table who ate fried ones with runny yolks were Patrick and yourself.

Carly spoke up next, polite enough to hand her menu over. “Egg white omelette, with tomatoes cheddar and spinach, please. Fruit on the side, and I’d also like hash browns.”

“Of course.” Diane nodded, taking the menu and scribbling the order down, the only one she had done so far.

“And you lot?”

Patrick shifted at your side. “Princess here will have three eggs, fried with a runny yolk. White toast, side of bacon. I’ll have the same, but sausage and an extra egg.”

Pride? Was that pride you were feeling? Admiration? Gratefulness?

It was a little of all three, but you gave Patrick a small smile all the same, then cleared your throat.

“Vic will have a waffle, lots of whipped cream, with strawberries and strawberry syrup.”

You heard a grateful groan at your side. “Oh my god that sounds fucking amazing.” Vic breathed against the table, rousing from his deadened state.

He lifted his head, gingerly bringing his mug of black coffee to his lips and taking a sip. Vic let out a near orgasmic moan at the taste alone.

“Good shit.”

Diane rose an eyebrow, patting Vic on the shoulder and heading off. “Be back, enjoy the drinks.”

You took one last drag of your cigarette as she left, stubbing out the end and letting the smoke curl out of your mouth slowly.

Your eyes found Carly, then Henry, who tensed upon finding your eyes on him.

“So,” You began, leaning back into the booth. “You guys dating now? Are you an official thing?”

“Why? Would that bother you?” Carly bit back, quick as a whip in her response.

Belch quickly started gulping his juice, as if he could pretend it was alcohol that he could drown his oncoming anxiety in. Vic leaned an arm over you, taking a sugar from the little holder stuffed to the brim of sweeteners, cream and jelly for toast. He rose his eyebrows at Belch, communicating in his own way as if to say; “ _Lmao, right, bro?_ ”

“No.” you finally said, tugging the compartment of sweetners to you, plucking a few packets out and ripping them open one by one. Your eyes were hard, mouth set in a firm line as you continued. “It wouldn’t. Why do you think it would?”

“Just a feeling. I know you’re close,” Carly’s grey eyes found Patrick, lingering there for a second too long before returning to you. “With your boys.”

Belch reached for Patrick’s water, and to your surprise, he let the clearly uncomfortable boy take it and gulp it down.

Henry chewed at his bottom lip. “Yeah, we’re a thing. Confirmed last night, [First Name]. Keep it cool, would ya? Don’t be so catty.”

If the incredulous look you gave Henry didn’t show how his comment was not welcomed, then Vic’s quiet gasp and murmur of “Bro, why?” did.

“What? She is.” Henry flew a hand to gesture across the table at you, on the defensive. “Startin’ shit, or whatever.”

“It was a question, Henry.” Patrick snapped, coming to your defense.

You rallied alongside him. “Yeah, I’m allowed to ask a fucking question. Especially if nothing was explained and I walked into a mental ambush by my curbside. Saturday breakfast or lunch or what the fuck ever- that’s our thing, this is the first time any of us have brought someone, and I wanted to know what made her so special, why is she allowed, Henry?”

“She’s allowed because I fuckin’ say she is.” Henry seethed, running a furious hand through his styled locks, messing them in the heat of the moment. “Jesus, fuck. You have to be the center of attention, don’t you? I bring a girl for breakfast, you lose your shit.”

“Dude.” Belch cut in, pointing at Henry. “Dude, don’t even. This ain’t the time for arguing.” You were almost insulted when he turned to point the same finger at you. “I mean it. Both of you.”

As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. Henry saw the light too, but neither of you felt the need to apologize, going to sip your drinks and trade silence for an apology.

Carly’s eyes glittered, and you caught how her lips curled into a knowing smile.

That argument, despite it being just a taste of what it could have been, gave her something she wanted. It assured her of her place in the group, something you had feared she would figure out eventually, but were inwardly horrified to realize she picked up on so soon.

Henry was the leader. He was the bread and butter of the Bowers Gang, he decided what you all did, what happened at what time, and who you all mingled with at parties.

He ruled the crew with an iron fist, a crown on his head. There used to be a crown on your head too, there was a time before today that Henry might have backed down, but in the moment, with Henry defending his decision, defending Carly, you knew.

You knew that crown was Carly’s now, and the reality burned a fire in your stomach, malice lacing your bloodstream as you settled with the fact that Carly knew that now too.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ve been dethroned.” You said tartly, together on the bleachers with Vic after school and hanging your legs limply off the furthest most left side of the row. You laid with your head in Vic’s lap, letting him mindlessly braid your hair while his eyes searched the football field for Belch, while your peers and friend barreled into each other like deranged bulls, shouts of triumph and pain reaching the two of you easily. **  
**

“You think so, Princess?” He murmured, kohl rimmed eyes finding the frown you wore. “Because methinks you’re on to something.”

A sigh, a shift of your shoulders, and he hummed, threading thin fingers through your locks and shaking loose your braids.

“What do you want to do about it?” Vic countered your silence with a prompt, one you had been mulling over for quite some time.

It was just the two of you, with Belch practicing on the field while Patrick had zipped off with the keys to the Trans-Am to grab some snacks and would be returning soon enough. Henry was MIA, and it was easy enough to guess where exactly he was at, but you didn’t dare think of the arm candy he was certainly banging in some pastel pink bedroom.

Henry had been pretty out of the way all week since the diner, his time spent with his new sweetheart or at home, avoiding you altogether and taking to hanging by his lonesome or just swinging by Belch’s once you had left. It hurt to know he was making a point to only enter a room if you had vacated it, but you guessed it made sense. The only time you really saw him was when Belch picked you up for school and dropped you off at home, or at lunch, where Henry left you to your own devices.

You knew the dynamic shifted that day at the diner, and it just became more painfully obvious as time went on, the tension between Henry and yourself made worse by your own spiteful and passive aggressive nature.

Carly’s presence at the lunch table, how Henry followed her around with an arm snaked at her hips and a hand tucked in her back pocket, or how she had started joining the crew for your days out and shenanigans after school made you feel the brunt of the change even more.

Everywhere you turned, any time you wanted to get away from the stress of classes and impending college applications, she was there. So pretty, so sweet, charming Henry and even getting Belch to soften up- then again, Belch was sure to let his guard down for any woman, he had always had a weak spot for girls, and was a perfect gentleman when it came down to it.

A week. A week of being inches from unloading another passive aggressive snarl on the girl and seven days of worrying when Henry would snap at you next.

Then came the next saturday, which had usually been the most looked forward day for any of you in the gang. It was the beginning of the weekend, obviously, but it also housed your personal favorite activity, Belch’s bonfires.

You let your saturday drone on, Vic in dance classes and Henry fucking around, the company of Belch and Patrick your shadows for that particular afternoon. Like usual, you three set it all up. It took a walk through the backwoods on Belch’s property and hauling a cooler, chairs and a couple blankets and pillows to get the job done, but you three were happy and all smiles by the time Vic arrived, dropped off by his parents and in his work out clothes.

Patrick was just then lighting the ‘bonfire’ when he showed up, which was really a rusted out fire pit Belch’s mom had picked up for him to roast marshmallows over and camp on the property with in the summers, but had instead served as the centerpiece of your saturday evenings, though a few smores had in fact been made with its use.

“That’s a lot of lighter fluid, ‘Trick.” Vic mused, coming to sit at your side and in a rickety but comfortable folding chair, settling in its polyester skin as if it were a throne.

“Fuck off, that’s how you make sure it fuckin’ lights, nimrod.” Patrick said, always on the defensive on his fire starting technique. You wouldn’t admit you thought the same, but the knowing smile you shared with Belch and Vic was proof enough that it could go unsaid.

Patrick squeezed the bottle of lighter fluid a few more times, drenching the firewood and kindling in the nasty smelling liquid before capping it and tossing the bottle aside for later use, digging in his pockets and procuring a pack of matches. He snapped one off, dragging it against the strip across the back, lighting the match with one try.

He flicked it into the pit, which roared to life instantly, the dark haired boy hovering over the flames for a moment, mesmerized by how they licked at the wood before you called out to him.

“Patrick, you’re gonna singe off your fucking eyebrows, back up you maniac.”

He rolled his eyes, but backed away and plopped down in a chair on your other side, taking his cigarettes out of the crappy mesh cup holder built into the chair and crossing his ankle over his knee, jiggling his leg in that antsy sort of way you had grown used to seeing.

“Where the fuck is Henry?” He asked aloud, sticking a cigarette between his lips and offering you the pack. You denied the offer with a quick wave of your hand, shrugging to his question.

“Dunno. Reggie, you heard anything?”

Belch lounged across the fire pit from you, nursing an ice cold beer and pulling out his phone. He typed in his passcode, scrolling a few times and frowned.

“Uh, yeah. He says he’ll be here in a bit. He’s running late.” Belch slipped his phone back in his pocket, chewing his lip, the action making you wonder if he was only giving the half truth.

Bending down beside your chair, you felt around for your backpack, unzipping it and digging past the contents. “Fine, then he can miss a chapter or two.”

“He’s gonna be pissed. We’re in the middle of the story.” Vic warned lightly, clapping his hands at Belch, who knew to throw the blond a can of beer.

You scoffed, taking out a worn and dog eared copy of ‘Dreamcatcher’ from your backpack, flipping through it until you landed on a familiar page and smoothing out the bent corner.

“Well he knows how it goes. I start reading when the sun begins to set.” You glanced up, noting how the sky was become an ocean of pastels, the hues of orange, pink, purple and blue bending across the horizon as the shadows of the fire lit the pages of your novel. “And it’s starting to set. So, tough shit, Bowers.”

You settled against the back of your chair, clearing your throat as Patrick lit his cigarette and Vic cracked open his beer, all eyes on you as you began to read.

You made it through a solid chapter before a rustling could be heard over the crackling fire, and you paused, a smile loose on your lips as you lifted your head, ready to greet Henry and welcome him to the story circle with open arms, to invite back that normalcy between the two of you and to catch him up on what he missed.

Instead, your smile dropped, and you had to clench your jaw tight from letting it drop open, watching as Henry stomped through the tall grass with Carly on his arm, her smile positively blinding.

“Wow.” You found yourself whispering lowly as they approached, Patrick’s leg coming to a stand still as he watched Henry lug his accessory to the circle.

“The fuck, [Last Name]?” Henry nodded at the book in your hands, taking to the cooler and turning from you, his words nonchalant, as if he hadn’t been ignoring and avoiding you all week. “You started without us?”

“I-” You looked to Patrick, swiveling to look at him as you whispered under your breath. “Dude am I having a fever dream?”

“No.” Patrick said back, the hand closest to you curling into a fist, the light of the fire dancing off the metals of his rings.

“Well, I wish I was.” Defeated, you turned back to Henry and Carly, who dug through the cooler together.

“Got anything that’s not beer and soda?” She asked absently, peeking over her shoulder to Belch, who shrugged uselessly.

Your eyes settled on him, and he was quick to avoid your gaze, looking positively guilty. It was then to realized he had known from the start that this was going to happen, and figured Henry had texted him earlier to announce her impending arrival.

Betrayed, irritated, and at a loss for words, you just sat there, scratching at the edge of the page, watching Carly move ice around in search for a drink to fit her delicate palette.

Why did you hate her? You wondered, really trying to find a good reason to loathe this girl, because it wasn’t like you to have this much hate for someone so easily. All she had done was make Henry happy, technically.

But god, she was disrupting the order of it all. Henry was supposed to be the first one to arrive at Belch’s on saturdays, he was the one that delegated what snacks were brought out, he was the one who tried time and again to throw his back out by refusing help when carrying the cooler through the woods.

But he had been gone. He had been with her.

You had felt his absence all day, itching at your thoughts while you folded up blankets and chatted with Mama Huggins as she made you, Belch, and Patrick lunch.

Belch was supposed to be all light hearted and joking, face flushed from alcohol consumption and munching on a bag of fritos. Now, he was just looking uncomfortable and wearing a fake smile, trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered by the intrusion.

Vic was quiet, Patrick clearly less than thrilled, and you couldn’t help but know that this was what the boys had been talking about just weeks before.

This was jealousy now, not envy. You didn’t want Henry per say, not like that. But you wanted his attention, his presence in your life, and to not worry about some girl you barely knew stomping through the years of friendship between you, him, and the others.

You were jealous she had Henry, you were angry Henry was avoiding you because of some girl, and god dammit you were furious that you didn’t have a good excuse to say all this out loud. If you did, you’d just be proving all the boys right, and part of you worried that you’d seem a little weaker in Henry or Patrick’s eyes.

So you sat there, politely allowing yourself to be silenced as you watch Henry and Carly collect themselves in one of the worn out folding chairs. Henry cracked open a beer in one hand, his other stuck to Carly’s hip as she positioned herself on his lap and held onto a soda, the both of them laying their eyes on you.

“Go ahead, start.” Henry nodded at you, and you saw a flash behind his eyes, a wordless warning not to act up. He was, in his mind, giving you a chance to behave. If you fucked it up this time, you were sure you’d be getting something worse than a cold shoulder.

You sighed softly, collecting yourself and clearing your throat before you set to the page, reading from where you left off, ignoring the coil of submission that built in you.

 

So no, you hadn’t just realized how fucked everything was while sitting on the bleachers. You had known for days. But now was the time to finally discuss it, between Vic and yourself, like it had always been.

“I don’t know what to do, Vic. Henry likes her, she makes him happy, I guess.” You said dejectedly, watching across the field as Vic smoothed your hair back in a comforting gesture. “It’s not my place to butt heads with him, especially not now, when we’re at odds with each other.”

“But you’re miserable.” Vic quipped, frowning and then nudging you. “You hate her, don’t you?”

“God, yes.” You groaned, “I hate her so much, she’s everywhere I fucking look. Class? There. Lunch? She’s there now too. Henry has made Belch pick her up from home so many times this week that I’m surprised Patrick hasn’t strangled her in the back.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wants to, knowing that boy.” Vic assured you, and you turned your head back to face him, searching his expression, which remained neutral. “Patrick’s picking up on what you’re feeling, and he’s just itching to unleashing it tenfold. If Patrick could have legally done it, I’m pretty sure he would have set her on fire by now.”

Passively, you raised an eyebrow. “You think he hates her that much?”

Vic shrugged, helping you sit up and watched as you situated yourself to sit beside him on the bleachers, stretching your arms out. “I don’t think Patrick hates things. He’s Patrick. If he doesn’t like something, he doesn’t think to even consider it worth his hatred. No.. No, he just wants her gone, just as much as you do. It took forever to get along with you, and that only worked out because you made him like you.”

“I did not.” You huffed.

“Did to.” Vic nudged you with a smirk. “You couldn’t stand him not liking you. You’re so eager to please, Princess, so you spent the better half of two years making that idiot warm up to you, and that’s probably the only reason he puts up with your bullshit.”

“Uh huh, that’s besides the point.” You averted your gaze, thinking to yourself how odd you felt to be pinned under such a accurate description of how yours and Patrick’s friendship came to be.

“Fair enough, but yeah. Carly’s nothing in his eyes, he probably wants to chuck her to the curb and get on with his life, his routine. So…”

You heard his voice tilt and drift off, a telltale sign he was fast at work, the cogs in his mind spinning as he fought to think of something.

“So, he could be of use.” He finished finally, and you blinked, looking back to Vic.

“Dude, what are you even talking about? Be of use to what?”

The blond drummed his nails against the thigh of his jeans, lips pulling into a mischievous smirk that you had learned to associate with Vic thinking of the most blatantly stupid shit, including but not limited to; The time he stole a 40oz from Keenes, when he pantsed the vice principal at homecoming in junior year, and from when he convinced you to help him climb the water tower- where the two of you (being twelve and incredibly stupid) were caught by Butch Bowers and given a weeks worth of community service.

“You’re not gonna like this.”

“Oh, I can fucking tell I’m not.” You replied apprehensively, but a curious and incredibly naive part of you just  _wanted_  to know what insanity the boy at your side was cooking up in his twisted little head. “But go on.”

“Hear me out,” He raised his hands, swiveling himself to face you fully and fold an ankle under a knee of his to sit comfortably. “If we want shit to get back to normal, we gotta tip the scales, big time. Henry tossed the dynamic into the trash, so we gotta fuck it up further. We gotta tip those scales into hades, [First Name], and I know just what will throw the balance out of whack enough that Henry Fucking Bowers will actually grow a brain cell and see what he’s fucked with, y’know?”

“Vic, that’s a little dramatic, rane it back buddy, come to the light a little.” You caught yourself holding back a laugh, surprised to see Vic so intense and focused on something that would apparently upset Henry.

“Oh no, we’re going dark, [First Name].” He clapped his hands together once, eyes bright and suggestive. “Are you ready to do what it takes to get Carly Henderson out of your life?”

“I guess?”

“Then date Patrick Hockstetter.”

You gapped at the blond, blinking furiously before letting out a near shriek. “WHAT.”

It echoed, and Belch’s head snapped you face the two of you, getting tackled by someone before he could make sense of anything. You flinched, hissing through your teeth.

“Sorry Reggie!” You called, and he picked himself up, waving you off as he returned to his practice.

Once his eyes left you, you turned on Vic, voice a low whisper.

“What the fuck, Victor. No, I’m not dating Patrick. Are you insane? You’re talking about ruining the crew, not fixing it. If we dated-”

“[First Name].” Vic held a hand up to silence you. “Shut up for a sec.”

You clamped your mouth shut at the order, but your eyes burned and your nostrils flared.

“Don’t actually Date Patrick, idiot. Fake date him. Let him in on the plan to overthrow Henderson, remind him it’s fake, and this’ll go smoothly.” He paused. “Probably.”

“Probably?” You repeated, voice imitating his tone, if not with a touch more sarcasm.

“Hey, Patrick Hockstetter if a fucking man of his own league. I don’t know what he’s thinking half the time and he has a fixation with fire and probably has a choking fetish. He’s unstable enough that I can’t be one hundred percent sure he’d play the part right,  _but_ ,” He stressed, shoulders relaxing. “He’d play it  _well_. He’s comfortable enough with you to get hands on at a moments notice, and as long as you’re able to look over your crush for him, I think you two could pull it off.”

You tensed. “What?”

“I said-”

You reached out, snatching his collar and dragging him close, breath playing with the ends of his hair as your eyes froze him from the intensity they held. “How did you know?”

Carefully, slowly, the blond began to pry your fingers from his shirt. “I’ve known since sophomore year, if you’re asking about the crush thing.”

You frantically searched your memories, trying to place what he was talking about. You had only recently found yourself thinking of Patrick that way, he wasn’t even on your radar before then.

“Relax.” You heard him assure you softly. “No one knows but me. The others are about as smart as a bag of rocks, and thats almost insulting the rocks. Patrick has friendzoned you, that much is obvious, so it’s not like its going to be a thing ever. Calm down, I can feel your anxiety, dumbass.”

You let out a shaky breath, surprised by how defensive and scared the possibility of Vic knowing about your feelings for Patrick made you.

“It just, like, happened. I guess.”

“I get it. I used to have a thing for Belch.” Vic waved his hand, and you gave him a mildly confused look. “I hid it well. You’re the only one who knows I like boys and girls, anyhow. I gave up when Belch got his first girlfriend. He’s so hetero is fuckin’ hurts sometimes, it wasn’t worth it to pine after him.”

He shrugged, scratching at his neck. Vic’s eyes wandered across the field and he perked up. “Pat’s coming, you have about a minute before he’s in ear shot. What’s the deal, you gonna do it? Ask him to fake date you?”

You frowned, eyes landing on the dark haired boy who strolled through the edges of the field like a shadow, smoke following him while he carried a plastic bag in his hand and a cigarette in the other.

“What if something goes wrong and I fuck up what we have?” You murmured, voicing your real concerns. “Fake dating or not, I have feelings for him, and that can go downhill really fast. What if we dated instead?”

Vic scoffed. “You think they’d believe it? Really? Us? We’ve slept in the same bed since we were like four, I’ve seen you naked more times then I can count, and the guys know all this.”

Patrick, closer now, held up a hand in greeting, lowering it to his mouth shortly after and sucking on the cigarette he had.

You and Vic raised your hands as well, and you forced a smile.

“Fake it till to make it, [First Name]. Who knows, maybe being his fake girlfriend will make you realize how much of a dick he is and your feelings will change. It’s worth a shot if you want to get rid of Henderson.”

Patrick blew smoke from his mouth and your heart caught in your throat when his grin found you as he rounded the last corner of the field.

“I’ll think about it. Now drop it, and if he asks, we were arguing about anything but Carly, got it?”

He sighed lowly, but acknowledged your request.

“What’re you guys so worked up about?” Patrick said, finally in ear shot as he slowly climbed the bleachers, stomping up and rattling them as he went. The bag was swung into your lap as he dropped between you and Vic, taking a drag of his cigarette and smirking.

“Wondering why it took your ass like twenty minutes to grab some snacks, you dip.” Vic cracked a smile, digging into the pocket of his bomber jacket and opening his pack of gold marlboros, taking one out and patting himself down for a lighter. “Did you get my Arizona?”

“Yeah, I got your fuckin’ tea.” Patrick nodded at the bag, which you opened and started removing items from. “I was making a few rounds too, by the way. How else do you expect me to get extra dough for shit? Sitting on my ass? The only time any of these Derry fucks want to snag some weed from me is after classes are out, everyone’s too much of a pussy to ask for some during school.”

“Expulsion on sight is the punishment for smoking or dealing at school, ‘Trick.” You reminded him, leaning across him to hand Vic his drink.

“Whatever.” He shrugged passively, watching you crack open the drink you requested, a bottle of the rare but delicious ruby red squirt soda.

The three of you fell into casual conversation, though you strained yourself to comply with answers, too focused on the plan Vic had given you, too concerned with weighing your options. You drifted through the rest of the evening, seemingly airheaded and attention stuck elsewhere, Patrick and Belch both checking in with you but only receiving a soft smile and an assurance that you were fine.

The next day came, you were distracted, quiet even in the car. You spent that morning in Vic’s lap instead of Patrick’s and no matter how many times Vic whined for you to smile for the camera as he held his phone up to take photo after photo of the two of you, you would only manage a wry smile that just didn’t do the trick.

Belch even stopped for coffee that morning, though Carly insisted he head out of the way of the gang’s usual haunt of Donut Dans and forcing you all to stop at Starbucks. Sure, the coffee was better, but the defiance and resistance Henry’s girlfriend had to negate the cheaper but well loved alternative left you with a bitter frown all the way back to school.

You leaned against the Trans-Am as students slowly filled the parking lot of Derry High, sipping on your iced coffee and scrolling through your phone. Henry was talking to you more now since the bonfire, but it did little to improve your mood. In fact, you were itching to get away from the gang the moment you exited the car.

Patrick was quiet at your side, coffeeless and smothered in cigarette smoke that morning. He had sucked down two since you got in the car with him, and was on his third. It didn’t take a genius to know something was bothering him too, and you thought back to what Vic had said, about Patrick picking up on your moods and intensifying them.

You tucked your phone away, Henry entertaining the others with a story and the attention solely on him. Patrick however, saw you shift against the vehicle and snapped out of his thoughts, looking to you.

You regarded him quietly, then teetered to the side, bumping his shoulder softly. “Wanna hang tonight? My parents won’t be home ‘till late, Vic is at dance practice until ten, and I’d like to go to your house and watch a movie or something.”

Grey-green eyes considered you, and you noticed how tense his jawline was before it loosened and you saw his posture relax. He had been on guard, you realized, and that fact worried you. Why was he on edge near you?

“I don’t want to be alone.” You admitted to him, giving a little shrug.

Finally, he nodded, lifting his cigarette to his lips. “I’ll let my Ma know you’ll be over for dinner.”

You patted his shoulder, and took a step away from the group. “I’m heading to class. Later Kiddos.”

Saluting them, and receiving a chorus of farewells, you walked away, sipping at your drink and wondering, hoping, if you had made the right choice in seeing Patrick that night.

* * *

The Hockstetter home sat idly on a street where every house had a picket fence, neatly clipped lawns and polished cars. The sidewalks weren’t cracked like they were near Belch’s house, or over grown to the point no one could see them on the backroads of Derry that led to Henry’s farm. The trees that lined the backs of houses had tire swings, the gardens that neighbours pruned and weeded were glorious and overfilled with flowers of varying shades and sizes, nothing seeming out of place and brightening the scenery considerably.

The Hockstetter home was nice, a handsome size with white paint, large and spotless windows, with a nice sized front porch that housed several chairs and a couple side tables. The lawn out front was mowed, and the rose bushes that wrung around the front trailed to the back, where you had spent afternoons laying in the grass with Patrick and the other members of the Bowers Gang, chatting amicably or listening to music on a portable speaker Patrick stole out of his dad’s office.

Walking inside, you would meet a foyer with a sizeable staircase, the wall it rested on showcasing shadow boxes of past family members and Charles Hockstetter’s coin collection- which had a few missing pieces, you were always quick to notice.

With hardwood floors, white linen high backed chairs and cream colored couches with perfectly fluffed pillows, you were able to see the stark difference between Patrick’s room and the rest of the house, which his mother had decorated and kept impeccably clean.

It wasn’t always his room, it had once simply been the basement, but once Patrick had started blaring his music at the highest notch on his speakers and bringing girls home, his parents had agreed to let him take over the deepest pits of the Hockstetter house.

It was dark down there, the flood windows covered by thick curtains and the limited amount of false lighting he had were only turned on when guests arrived. Patrick was happy to slink around in the blackness, and you joked with him plenty of times that he had night vision, because he never seemed to trip or stumble in the darkness when he searched out his lamps for you or the others to be able to see in his room.

When those lights came on, you were able to see a messy expanse. His bed was pushed against a center wall, a single blanket and pillow folded around each other on the deep colored forest green sheets, there were clothes everywhere, and spare vinyl records he had never bothered to stuff back in the casings scattered about.

Patrick’s closet was always open, and you could see the basses he stuffed in there and speakers too, or the deep winter clothes he kept carefully hung up, waiting to be used when Maine finally got its snow for the year.

Opposite his bed was a comfy and torn up couch, broken and sagging on some spots, but you loved the piece of trash to death. You’d fallen asleep on it countless times, snuggled in the smell of clove cigarettes, damp earth and a musk that was just Patrick- all encompassing, all comforting. There was a TV across the way, a coffee table in between the two, where Patrick’s boots always seemed to be glued too when watching a movie, an ashtray located there as well, which he actually made an effort to clean up now and again. Aside from that there were bean bag chairs tossed into the corner, usually claimed by Belch and Vic when they hung out, but left alone when you arrived.

You liked Patrick’s room. It was so him, from the posters of horror movies and bands he enjoyed, to the shelving in his room filled to the brim of slasher films, cartoons and thick bound psychology books (which you assumed were for decoration only), the room just said “Patrick Hockstetter”.

Upon entering the house, dropped off by Belch after leaving Vic at his dance studio, you saw Angela Hockstetter turn a corner.

Tired and worn, she still smiled brightly at you, dressed smartly in a pastel green blouse and black slacks. Her hair was still pulled in a tight bun from work, where you knew she spent the day defending criminals and mad men in front of a jury.

“[First Name], it’s good to see you!”

Patrick, as he always did, rounded his mother without so much as a greeting. Her dark eyes followed her son, but they snapped back to you, her smile thinning.

“Nice to see you too, Mrs. Hockstetter. Are you sure you’re okay with me staying for dinner?”

“Oh,” She waved a hand, the light of the foyer chandelier catching a glimmer against the diamond on her wedding ring. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. I’m always happy to have you here. You’re such a good friend to Patrick, and his father hasn’t seen you in ages. We’re having noodles, and since I know you like them, I’ll go ahead and make some tofu spring rolls, with the little peanut sauce.”

As mouthwatering as the food sounded, you still found yourself a little starstruck, seeing as it was laughable how easy it was to forget that Patrick was half vietnamese. It was only when you visited his house that you remembered, his mother’s style of cooking and appearance a reminder each time.

“That sounds amazing,” You nodded eagerly. “If you need help, please, tell me-”

“Don’t worry about it, and,” She looked over her shoulder, to where Patrick hovered by the doorway of the living room, which would lead to a hall that would take the two of you to the basement. “Patrick, don’t forget to wash up for dinner. We have a guest.”

Angela nodded at you, Patrick’s eyes rolling skyward.

He muttered something, and quick as a whip, with a hard smile, Angela snapped something right back at him in her native tongue.

Whatever it was, it made him bristle, and he jerked his head away and said something flatly back in the same language, the whole scene leaving you a little awkward and at the mercy of your gut assumptions that it had to do with you.

“Lets go.” Patrick ordered, leaving with a frown.

“I’ll make black rice pudding too,” Excited by the prospect to have a guest to impress, Angela looked to you with  kinder eyes. “I’ll call for you two when it’s ready.”

Dismissed, you hurried after Patrick, who had thrown open the door to his room and ducked through the doorway to head down the stairs.

You caught up after him, shutting the door behind you and trudging after him in the darkness. As always, you waited at the bottom of the stairs, barely hearing him maneuver through the maze of his room for lamps to light.

When the first one turned on you hopped off the last step, watching the lanky teen make his way over  clumps of loose clothing to turn on a few more lights.

“So, what’d she say?”

His eyes flickered to you as he bent down, turning the last lamp on and straightening. “Does it matter?” He said, the tone in his voice daring you to push.

You didn’t, shaking your head and stepping over the landmines, heading to the couch. “Nah, guess not. At least your mom likes me, I guess. She’s always so annoyed when Henry comes over.”

“She doesn’t like him.” Patrick replied simply, going to the shelving by the television and running a finger across the spines of movies. “She likes Vic though, and Belch. They’re polite.”

You dropped down on a cushion, shifting into a comfortable position and shrugging off your jacket, you bit your lip, noticing how he didn’t agree or repeat that yes, his mother did in fact like you. Angela was like her son, in the way what she could make a convincing face and pretend she enjoyed your company, and she did so with Henry anytime he was over.

“She likes you.” Patrick’s voice brought you from your thoughts and he plucked a movie from the wall, flipping around to face you, regarding you with a barely there smirk. “Incase you were wondering, and I know you were. She likes you, a lot.”

“Ominous.”

“Your family is well off, you’re planning on going to a four year college, you tolerate me.” Patrick’s eyes left you as he spoke, wandering to the dvd player by the tv and messing around with it, opening the movie case. “Honestly, Angela Hockstetter would roll a red carpet out for you every time you came over, if she got the chance.”

You laughed a little. “Thats a little much, don’t you think?”

“Whatever you say.” He replied, rounding the coffee table with the remote in hand, the screen of the television coming to life as he plopped down beside you, brushing against your shoulder and pressing the appropriate buttons to switch to the dvd player input.

“What movie did you pick?” You asked, curious, usually Patrick would ask you your preference for the night and go from there.

“House of Wax. Your favorite.” His lips quirked, a sinister little smile replacing the apathetic expression he had worn since fiddling with the dvd player.

You gave a groan, smacking his chest lightly as he laughed at your side. “You ass.”

House of Wax was not your favorite film, by any means. It as cheesy, sure, with lots of slasher gore that you would normally enjoy, and a handsome villain, but it had always spooked you just a little too much, no matter how many times you’d been forced to watch it. Something about the very idea, of real people being under the wax, was utterly horrifying, and you’d never been able to sit through a few of the scenes, including the god awful sex scenes and cringey 2005 humor.

“I hate you, I can’t believe you’re making me see Jared Padalecki get hosed down with wax for the eighteenth time.” But you curled up your legs on the couch despite your complaints, feeling the normalcy of spending an evening watching horror movies with Patrick taking priority over your indifference for the choice of film.

“More like the twentieth, keep up, Princess.”

A lean arm was thrown over your shoulders as he turned up the volume with the remote and you didn’t resist the hold, scooting closer and relaxing against him, finding him to do the same. Before long, you were sucked in the film, flinching at all the old jumpscares you’d seen time and again, and feeling disgust as the plot progressed. Still, you were hooked, and Patrick was too, laughing where you’d be horrified, and nudging you when that fateful Jared scene arose.

You scrunched up your nose, but watched on.

Sitting there, curled close together and enjoying a horror movie, struck your thoughts. You wondered back to Vic’s proposition, chewing on your lip as the movie went on without your attention, Patrick still absorbed while you thought.

It could be like this. Dating him, fake dating him. It would be easy to fool the Henry and Belch. You’d just need to sneak off to his house more and do exactly what you were doing then, maybe up the PDA since Patrick was constantly all over his dates in the past. The only thing, and it hurt your head to think about, was that there would be the evidence factor.

Patrick Hockstetter was not a gentle lover. His girlfriends returned to school after nights with him showcasing purple and yellow blotches on their necks, or red and raw love bites dipping far past their collar. He’d jerk them around, bite their lips until they were sore and bruised and kiss them until their lungs gave out. He was intense, overbearing, and possessive.

If you wanted to get away with the little trick you wanted to pull, you’d have to ante up more than spending a night on his couch and holding hands in public. You’d have to commit to physical affection, rough grips on your hips, and hickeys across your skin.

Henry wouldn’t believe it otherwise, unless you looked the part of a victim of Patrick’s lust, you’d never get away with it.

“What is it.”

Your head snapped up, and you blinked. “Hm?”

Patrick watched you through long lashes, expression stoic. “What’s wrong? You’re outta it tonight. You’ve been outta it for a few days, actually.”

“Uh,” You almost chewed your lip, but knew it would give you away. “Just stuff, don’t worry ‘Trick.”

“Not worried. Curious.” He stated simply, exhaling softly. “Whatever then, don’t tell me.”

“Don’t guilt me, Hockstetter.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Princess.”

There was a grip of tension in the air, and you could tell Patrick was borderline insulted you wouldn’t fess up to your thoughts. You deliberated your options in silence before sliding away from him, to which he gave an indignant click of his tongue.

“Really?” He almost sneered, eyes hard.

You gauged him thoughtfully, and shifted yourself to face him, a leg hanging off the edge of the couch with the other tucked under you. “Listen, you wanna know what’s on my mind?”

“What gave you that idea?” He snarked, a frown forming. “Why? You actually going to tell me?”

“Yes, if you drop the attitude.” You shot back, and watched as his mouth close, his way of allowing you to continue. “Vic and I were talking-”

“Lord save me.” Patrick cracked an almost disappointed smile, as if he pitied what was to come out of your mouth next. “What now?”

“Shut the fuck up, Patrick. Damn. Give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“When Vic is involved, I’m happy to say that I’m wary of his plots and exploits, thank you. He’s an adrenaline junkie and a party animal when it comes down to it, don’t deny this.”

“Just because he-”

“Just because he what? Drank a bottle of perfume at a party, shattered an urn and lit a kitchen on fire in one night, doesn’t mean I can make an educated guess that what is about to come outta that pretty little mouth of yours is one hundred percent idiocy, through and through?”

Stunned and a little insulted, you frowned. “Forget it.”

“No, do tell, Princess. Entertain me, please.” Sarcasm drenched his words and he stifled a laugh.

“It’s about Carly Henderson.”

The dark haired boy tipped his head back, unleashing an almost earth shattering groan.

“What? What could Vic possibly be cooking up that involves that whore, and why the fuck are you getting involved.”

He wiped a hand down his face, from nose to mouth, watching you with a steely gaze.

“At this point, I don’t want to even tell you.” You threw your arms up, exasperated. “You’re such an ass, why can’t you have faith in me-”

“Prove it then.” He wound his hands up in a fashion, as if near defeat. “What’s the brilliant plan? Are you guys trying to get rid of Carly?”

Your rocked to the side, picking at your jeans. “Yes.” You mumbled.

He rolled his eyes. “Henry’ll run her off soon enough.”

“No, not soon enough, Patrick.” You argued back. “She’s sucking my soul away, I swear. I’m not ready to spend the next however long dealing with her meddling in my life. She’s at the bonfire, she’s at the diner, it’s driving me insane, ‘Trick.”

“You’re being stupid.” He leaned forward, prodding a finger against your forehead, making you wince. “She isn’t worth the effort.”

Annoyed now, you move his hand away. “She is.”

“Fine then. Lay it on me.” Patrick rose an eyebrow, and you noticed how his eyes lingered on the curves of your face before he backed away, letting you breathe.

You exhaled sharply, collecting yourself and then just tossed it out there. “Vic thinks if we fake dating each other, that Henry would see how much he’s fucked with the group and drop Carly.”

Silence, aside from the sounds of a murder about to play out on screen, Paris Hilton’s hiccuping sobs emulating the anxiety surging through your body as Patrick just… Stared at you.

Slowly, he closed his eyes, and shook his head.

“Repeat that.”

“Patrick-”

“Repeat.”

You heaved a sigh. “I want to fake date you to knock Carly Henderson into the grass, alright.”

His eyes snapped open, and the harshness behind them shocked you. “You want to use me?”

“Yes.” You knew that’s what this was, that what you had planned was centered around taking advantage of Patrick’s help more so than anything.

A laugh, bitter and short, left him before he sat up straighter. “Is that what you really want, Princess? Do you want to make the wicked witch of the west go away this much? Enough to ask me, flat out, to let you use me for your own selfish gain?”

Again, with your tongue prodding your cheek and eyes cold, you replied. “Yes.”

He clicked his tongue, sinking back against the couch and considering you with a dark look. “You know, jealousy is really fucking ugly on you, sweetheart.” He said almost endearingly, and you watched him take out a pack of smokes. “So tell me. Do you have a thing for Bowers?”

“No, that’s not what this is about.” You defended, Patrick lighting his cigarette and tossing his pack on the coffee table. “I don’t have a thing for Henry. I swear, I just think it’s unfair and ridiculous to give into Henry’s bullshit when it’s…”

“Distracting attention away from you?” He offered, then held up a finger, thinking out loud. “Diminishing your relationship with Henry? Threatening your position? Making you feel weaker?” He faked a quiet gasp when you flinched at those words. “You’re worried you’ll be replaced, Princess?”

Smoke curled from his mouth, and for the first time in years, you felt almost threatened by Patrick. He was hitting home, striking a match under you, making you squirm.

You hated it.

You launched forward, digging your knees into the cushions and looming above him. Patrick wore an apathetic expression, but you saw how his eyes danced at your show of dominance.

“No one is going to replace me, Hockstetter. I’m going to make sure of that, and you are going to help me keep it that way.” Your lip curled with your words, the dark haired boy below you scratching absently at his jaw.

Arrogant, the both of you. Abrasive, the both of you. Cunning, the both of you.

Patrick tilted his head back, blowing smoke past his lips and watching you closely. “Why should I? I could take this shit to Henry, instead. Get you in trouble.”

Your tongue slid across the bottoms of your teeth. It was a game of control he was playing now, a game of chicken.

Your friend or not, you had insulted Patrick by asking to use him. He wasn’t a tool, you knew he wasn’t, and  _he_  knew he wasn’t. You approached the situation wrong, and now you were paying the price. He was furious with you, even if he didn’t say it, his intense and closed off demeanor spoke for itself.

“You want her gone too.”

“Sure. But I’m not willing to fuck with Henry to do it.” Nimble fingers brought his cigarette back, and he sucked on the filter, the end red hot and glowing.

“Yes you are.” You assured him, and finally dropped the last of your regard for space, slipping closer and resting a knee between his thighs, dangerously close to him. The act itself caused him to bristle, but you pressed on, reaching to tuck hair behind his eyes like he would normally do so endearingly to you. His piercings glinted in the light as you continued. “You want it to go back to normal. You’re a man of routine, and Henderson is fucking with you as much as she’s fucking with me, just in different ways.”

“Look at you,” He mused softly. “You really want this, don’t you? Can’t stand anyone possibly taking away your throne.”

“No, I can’t.”

His eyes searched your own, though you were unsure of what he hoped to find. Whatever it was, he must have seen it, because slowly, with a dangerous glint in those bright eyes of his, he smirked.

“What do I get out of this.”

“The same thing I get. Order.”  _And I know that’s what you want._  You thought to yourself, staring him down.

“A common goal for the common good. Not my style, but for you…” Patrick flipped and pressed the cigarette to your lips, little wisps of smoke leaving him as he spoke. “ _Anything._ ” 


	5. Chapter 5

Your alarm rang, phone vibrating with a hollow ping against the granite of your bathroom sink, and you softly tapped the screen with a damp finger, dismissing it without a thought. You had snuck back inside your home hours ago, the feel of Patrick’s hand against the small of your back like a phantom fire that just wouldn't stop, the reality of what you had done like a buzz in your ears, distracting you from your morning routine even as you performed it hours before you were supposed to even be awake.

But now you could face yourself in the mirror, running a brush through damp strands, your showers steam still misting the bathroom and leaving it humid even after you had stepped out, but you couldn't have been bothered to open a window and let the room breathe.

 

The night with Patrick had been odd, like the two of you were going through your normal motions, but the deal made between the two of you, like a pact with the devil himself, loomed above your casual conversation until it was unbearable for the both of you.

“I’m taking a shower.” Patrick finally broke the silence you had instilled, bored with the movie playing on the flat screen and tired of bouncing his knee.

He shot up from the couch, attempting to be casual in the moment, but the tenseness in his shoulders and the way his eyes only grazed you when he slipped passed your legs to head to the ensuite his basement bedroom held was obvious.

“M’Kay.” You said, a little put off to be left to your own devices after a tense night together, but understanding nonetheless.

Patrick dipped into the bedroom without another word, and you heard the shower turn on after a moment, relaxing on the couch while trying to focus on the film. Words faded in an out of your hearing as slowly, you sank against the couch, sliding across the cushions and resting your cheek against the well loved pillows that gave off the faintest smells of clove cigarettes, something musky, and damp earth, the perfect perfume of the boy who owned the room. You fought the urges to rest, knowing you’d need to stay awake and leave soon. Patrick would probably ask you to get out bit after he left out of the shower.

There was no use however, because before you knew it, you were being gently shaken awake.

You had indeed fallen asleep.

Your eyes snapped open, finding Patrick bent over you with his hair slicked back and just wearing a pair of sweatpants. The lamp lighting was soft and yellow, barely bright enough that you could see all the little tattoos that covered his arms and dotted his collar and chest. He hid them so well under his jacket or a t shirt that it was simple to forget how much ink he had, but moments like these reminded you. All black and grey, with splatters of red and yellows, in that old style traditional he always liked, in arrays of shapes and sizes. Daggers, skulls, roses, sparrows, snakes and anchors. He had them all, not enough to be overwhelming, but still a dizzying mismatch across his pale skin that you to to blink to focus on.

“Wake up sleeping beauty.” He mused, demeanour changed for the better, the smile that played on his lips was welcomed and familiar, comforting you as you stretched arms out and over your head. “You’ve been out for a bit.”

You hummed, gaze finding his own. “I guess I’ll head out, ‘Trick.”

Patrick rubbed a towel against his hair, fluffying it up before smoothing it back again, watching as you pushed yourself into a sitting position and rubbing at your eyes. “Nah, let’s go grab some food. We still got shit to shoot, Princess.”

So that was how you ended up walking side by side, trying to keep pace with Patrick’s long legs while wrapped up in your jacket and battling against the early spring chill. You traveled in relative silence, the boy at your side leading you down streets the two of you had memorized years ago, until the neon zip lighting around the diviest diner of town could be seen past morning mist and vacant red light traffic stops.

You stepped inside, breathing in the stale air of Burns' Diner, the smells of grease, choked cigarette smoke and rich maple syrup leaving you with a tangible sense of familiarity, Patrick’s hand resting against the small of your back as he herded you to the back of the diner, where a sticky booth awaited the two of you.

He lit a cigarette before you had even sat down, and ringed fingers held it loosely, offering it to you once he had taken a drag and sat down across from you.

You took it, and a silence fell, his eyes searching your own, lingering at the way your eyes flickered downcast to the scratched up surface of the linoleum.

“So,” He began, watching you take a short hit of the cigarette. “How do we go about this?”

A waitress began to wander over, and you inched the ashtray close, tapping new ash into its mostly clean self before sighing quietly. “Slowly. If we show up all over each other, Henry’s gonna know something’s up.”

Your waitress hovered at the tableside, pad of paper and pen in hand, but all eyes on Patrick, who regarded her with a quirk of his eyebrow.

She was new, in her early twenties and still doe eyed, you’d never seen her around before, but it was safe to say she as already enamored with the dark haired boy by the way she bit her lip and shifted to look at you instead- Patrick’s gaze proving too intense so early in the morning.

It was nearly two am, but Burns' was open all night, twenty four hours a day, six days a week. Sunday was for the lord, Jacob Burns would say if asked why he made it so, and you thought that mindset, even in present day, seemed to fit Derry just fine.

You had stayed with Patrick that night, assuring your parents you were at Vic’s and would be home late, while assuring Vic you were anywhere but Patrick’s. The lie would surely bite you in the ass later, but for now, while sitting with him in a diner booth after spending a night in near complete silence and pondering just how insane you were for getting Patrick Hockstetter to agree to fake date you, you knew it was needed.

You didn’t need the distraction of Vic texting you every five minutes, or have to think of an excuse. You needed to focus, to plan.

“Welcome to Burns' Diner. I’m Cindy, and I’ll be your waitress.” Cindy chirped with too much enthusiasm for the morning time, and you pressed the cigarette to your lips as she continued. “What can I get you two to drink this morning?”

“Coffee.” You answered shortly, running only on the couch nap you had succumbed to while Patrick had run off to take a shower around midnight, but you realized how rude you sounded and added to your request with a softer tone. “Please.”

“I’ll have the same.” Patrick said, and shook his head a little when Cindy made to set menus on the table. “No need.”

“Just coffee?” Cindy asked, folding the menus back under her arm, looking between the two of you.

“Just coffee, and a plate of pancakes. Butter on the side.”

Cindy was quick to jot that down, running a hand through her russet red hair with a little smile, looking to you afterwards, where it thinned a tiny bit. “Would you like anything?”

“It’s to share.” Patrick assured her, wetting his bottom lip and shifting to reach over, taking the clove cigarette from you and lifting it to his mouth to take a long drag, settling back against the booth with a crinkle of the covering, his leather jacket catching a glint of the soft lighting.

Cindy nodded, taping her pen against paper for a second before perking up some and stepping away. “I’ll be back with your coffee.”

“Bring a pot!” You called after her as she left, feeling a little awkward sitting there without something to do with your hands. They found the top of the table eventually, tracing little shapes into the dents and scratches littering the tops, Patrick blowing smoke away from the table before speaking.

“Cold?”

“No.”

Silence again, Cindy arriving with coffee and a full pot in no time at all, but managing to leave without a seconds worth of small talk. Your leg bounced, and you just knew the leather jacket clad boy across from you saw how raw your nerves were, but were still surprised when he pulled your mug of coffee over and began to empty sugar packets into it.

“Babying me now?” You said, your lips finding a small smile as he dumped a few tiny cups of cream in the drink. Wordlessly, with a sort of humor hidden in his grey-green eyes, he stirred the mugs contents with his spoon.

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic looking without sleep. You need caffeine. We still gotta go to school, you know.” Patrick popped the spoon in his mouth to replace his cigarette, tasting what he had made, and his nose wrinkled as he leaned to set the drink in front of you. He took the spoon out of his mouth, looking a little disgusted as he smacked his lips. “Should be perfect, sugary and creamy. Like you like it, Princess.”

You let loose a small laugh, quiet so much that it barely left the table, the other handful of patrons engrossed in their own worlds, tables away and unassuming.

Cold hands, chilled by the morning spring air from your walk that the two of you took to make it from Patrick’s home to the diner, wrapped around the mug. It was cooled significantly, but still warm enough, and you brought the rim of the mug to your lips, sipping at the coffee.

It was indeed perfect, if not a bit too sweet. But that didn’t matter much, the act of Patrick willingly fixing you your drink made it worth the trouble of it being a little too much.

“Good job. Nine out of ten.” You replied, but drank heavily from the cup, downing almost off it in no time at all.

Setting it back down, you let out a relieved sigh, hoping the caffeine would kick in sooner rather than later. “You’re not dating anyone right now, right?”

“No, just you.” He offered with a half grin, tapping ash into the ashtray before chuckling. “Nah, my last girl fucked off a week back.”

“Vanessa, right?” You fought to remember, plucking sugar packets from the center console of the table, where condiments rested, and tossing them to Patrick.

He caught a few, the rest hitting the table, and started to open them, his cigarette held between thin and ringed fingers. “Nah, that was like three weeks ago. I’m talking about Shannon… Wait, no. Amber.”

“No,” You were quick to correct. “Amber was in February. After your birthday, remember?”

“What? No.” His brow furrowed while he stirred his coffee, eyes rolling as he thought. “Uh, wait. Yeah, you’re right. It was Shannon last week. She held on for three days.”

You couldn't help the little smirk that appeared, or the snicker that followed. “Oh my god, you’re such a man whore. I love it, but how am I going to get anyone to believe you’re into monogamy enough to date me?”

“How are you going to get anyone to believe you fell in love with me?” Patrick countered easily, but the prompt made you pause, and frown.

“We’ve been friends for years, ‘Trick. You know what they say, eventually, someone develops a crush for someone else in a group one way or another. It’s not that hard to picture, plus, we’ve been really close these last few years. I’m sure some people would think ‘it's about time’ more so then ‘how’, you know?”

The words left you easily, and you shifted uncomfortably, realizing that it was the truth. People who had seen the five of you together all these years had always whispered about you shacking up with one of the boys eventually, and part of you knew that no one would be too surprised that it was Patrick. After all, Patrick had mentioned that people thought they were together before, and you had encountered plenty of classmates who have asked you the same.

“Mhm,” He took one last deep inhale of his cigarette before stubbing it out. He opened his mouth, letting the smoke writh and curl from his lips, clouding over him momentarily before he swatted it away. “But if someone asks, and lets be real, someone will. Henry, for instance, what are you going to say?”

You dropped your shoulders, eyes flickering to Cindy, who walked over briskly with a plate full of pancakes. They smelled fresh, and were piping hot, steam rising from them as she set the plate down, along with a small dish of whipped butter.

“There you go, let me know if you need anything else.” The redhead clarified, dropping a bottle of maple syrup on the table.

“Thanks.” Patrick said with little emotion, his gaze stolen from you but a moment, before it fell back on your less enthused expression, the dismissal in his actions clear.

Cindy, still somehow smiling, walked off, but you caught how her shoulders slumped the further she got away.

Patrick inched the plate to you with his knuckles. “Eat.”

Dinner the night before had been delicious, Angela out doing herself once again. Rice noodles in a hearty beef broth had hit the spot, as well as the fresh spring rolls she insisted you eat plate after plate of. By the end of the meal, you had been stuffed full, but still looking forward to dessert.

“I love cooking for an appreciative crowd,” Angela cooed, giving you the biggest spoonful of something black and sticky. It smelled amazing, like coconut milk and something sweet that you couldn't put your finger on. “Patrick is such a picky eater.”

Patrick, sitting across from you and stabbing her spoon at the black dessert with clear disdain, didn't argue.

“Well I love your cooking. My mom thinks a frozen pizza is gourmet and my dad could burn water… I take after them both, sadly.” You tried to joke, feeling a little odd pretending you hadn’t just plotted with Patrick in the basement not an hour before, and scooped a bite of the dessert into your mouth in distraction.

It was mildly sweet, with a texture similar to rice pudding, if not a bit thicker. There was indeed rice, obvious from the light texture, and you could taste the coconut milk as you swallowed.

Angela laughed, accepting the complement, and the night went on. That next morning though, sneaking out of the house in the dead of night and skipping on over to Burns’, you had grown an appetite once more, so you unwound a paper napkin and retrieved the silverware inside before digging into the stack of pancakes.

You didn’t realize just how starving you wore until the first half of the stack had been sawed off by your fork and knife, and you were running low on syrup and butter. Patrick didn't care to take the plate from you, just lighting more cigarettes up to smoke as his midnight snack while you devoured the sweet cakes.

By the time you had finished, Patrick at stubbed out his fourth cigarette and Cindy dropped by with the check.

You wiped your face with a napkin as she delivered the check with a smile, settling the ticket down in front of Patrick and entirely ignoring your existence. You weren't surprised, but you weren't pleased either. You knew there was a lick of jealousy in you again, gross and clinging to your thoughts, your expression. Patrick barely spared you a glance as he pulled a roll of bills from the pockets of his sweat pants, counting out the check and leaving the money to sit in wait for the server.

“Not even dating, and you’ve got the look down.”

He didn't need to clarify, and you shuffled to leave the booth as Patrick finished the last of his own coffee, giving him an off put glare

“As far as everyone knows, we  _ are _ dating, Hockstetter. Remember that. No gallivanting off to fuck Bowie, I don’t care if she is your relapse girl. Keep up appearances.” you gestured vaguely, giving slightly disgusted curl of your lip at the thought.

“Oooh, she's catty.” He snarked, tilting his head to the side and rising to follow you, his eyes glittering despite the less than pleasant lighting inside.

“ _ She’s _ not willing to let a plan fall apart because someone can't keep his dick in his pants.” You quipped, bumping your shoulder against his arm as the two of you took off, leaving the table with a considerate tip and an empty plate of syrup and pancake remains.

Patrick rounded tables alongside you, pushing open the diner’s door as the bell above it rang offensively, shrill and too harsh for the morning time, holding it open for you. You passed him, still frowning, and he joined you quickly while letting the door slam closed behind him, the two of you once again making your way back to the neighbourhoods to head home and retire for the night.

Dew settled over the grass, the headlights of the rare car in the street, dawn commuters for work, casted off the blades and making them glimmer in the moonlight. It was quiet, comfortable silence, the kind you and Patrick had spent years creating and molding to fit just right in your day to day lives.

“Does Belch know?” You heard from beside you, Patrick’s voice curious, but just barely.

You gave a small shake of your head. “Nah. Just me, you, and Vic. Reggie’d probably accidently spill the secret, you know he sucks at keeping that shit together. That's why we all know Henry liked Carly in eighth grade.”

“I thought that was a high school thing,” Patrick thought aloud, then continued with a shrug. “Granted, I barely talked to you fucks until freshman year.”

He looked down at you while crossing the street together, a pull to his lips. “But we weren’t friends until sophomore year, huh? The guys were fine with waiting until I came around, but you were desperate for my attention, weren't you, Sweetheart?”

You thanked the gods above that Patrick had cut across the street to where trees hung high above, shadowing you two easily. If they hadn’t been there, he would have seen the heat that rose across your cheeks and neck, caught off guard by both his jab, and the nickname.

Patrick had always stuck with a single nickname for you. Princess, or maybe just a variation of your name. Nothing else, and the oddly sentimental pet name he spoke had you flushed and dazzled, loving the way it slipped out his mouth so casually- sly and velvety on his tongue.

“You fuckng ignored me all the time,” You recovered quickly from your daze, clicking your tongue and stuffing cold hands into the pockets of your jacket, curling and uncurling them inside the warmth. “I wasn’t gonna stand for that shit.”

“Right, because you can't stand someone ignoring you.” Patrick reminded you with a coy look, smirking. “You gotta be the center of attention, or you curl up and die.”

“Hey, thin ice pal.” You slid closer to him, elbowing his side as he chuckled. “I know you’re still kinda pissed at me, and I’m sorry I worded shit wrong. You aren't a tool, Patrick. I value you as something more than that.”

_ Way more. _ You wanted to say, biting your lip while turning down a street, the incline increasing as you lead him closer and closer to your own neighbourhood.

“Can’t stay too angry at you, I guess.” Patrick looped an arm around your waist, and you didn’t pull away, letting his hold hang on you. Even in the barely there illumination of the street lights, you saw how his eyes flickered to you with an unreadable exterior. “But don’t pull that shit again. I wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

Despite his choice of words, you heard the threat loom. He was letting you off practically scott free this time, but next time you dared to test his patience, or the lengths he was willing to go for you, things wouldn't go as pleasantly as they had.

“Fair. Again, sorry.”

He grunted in response as you came up on the driveway of your home, your parents cars parked out front, and your own sitting in the garage, locked away for a rainy day. A nice clipped yard, with tulips just now sprouting around the front porch, you could say your home was an accurate depiction of typical suburbia. Four bedrooms, three baths, it was a larger home, painted a greyish blue with window shutters and a large front porch that winded all the way to the back.

Your own home was familiar, safe. Despite the crystal vases and spot free floors and walls, it was still a place you knew you could romp around without consequence. However, arriving as late as you were, at nearly three in the morning, wouldn’t be met with much positivity if you woke your parents up.

So, leading Patrick quietly up the steps, you broke from him, flipping up the front mat and snatching a key, making quick work or the lock and gently pushing the door open. It didn't make a so much as a creak, and you tucked the silver key back under the mat in no time, turning back to your new boyfriend.

Fake boyfriend.

You were going to need no getting used to that.

“See ya in the morning, Princess.” The dark haired boy said, taking a few steps back, gaze boring into you. “Next time I see you, we’re an item. Remember that.”

You scoffed softly, putting a hand on your door and edging into your home. “Just as long as you do too, Hockstetter.”

His lips spread into a grin and his tongue came to wet the bottom one before he turned and walked down the front steps, silent as a predator as he began to trek through the lawn. He raised a hand in saluted departure, not bothering to give another proper goodbye as you shut the door on his retreating form.

 

Standing in the bathroom, towel drying your hair and brushing through it over and over, lost in thought, you tried to prepare for the morning to come. You hadn’t slept, just laid in bed and rolled around, never finding a spot to doze off in, and instead choosing to check Instagram and other social media.

Vic had posted a few videos and pictures of his latest routines from dance class, his skills impressive as ever. Belch posted a few facebook posts about his upcoming football games, tagged you and the guys in a meme or two, and retired for the night. Henry’s social media was a stew pot of lovey dovey shit though, and crossing his profiles made you want to retch, Carly Henderson’s face was everywhere, she was his woman crush wednesday and mentioned in almost everything he posted. You barely had the chance to recover from one gross photo of them kissing until you would scroll a post or two down and come across another.

Henry looked happy though, sipping beers and letting her smooch his cheek, or caught mid-laugh with hearts around his face on snapchat, uploaded on his profile by his girlfriend. He didn't dare delete them, and you swore you were being spammed with all his joy. His love. His gross level of affection for this girl you were plotting to kick to the curb.

You diligently liked and hearted his pictures, wordlessly showing false support. You had to do that, in the very least. Even if it made your nostrils flare and grind your teeth. You had to keep up appearances.

You left the bathroom, snatching your phone off the counter with a flick of your wrist, in a fouler mood than before from thinking about her. The Antichrist. The new Bowers Gang Queen. 

Reaching your room, the device in your hand vibrated once, twice, three times. A text.

You opened your screen, reading the quick blurb sent to you.

 

**Tricky Trick (ChuckleFuck)** **_6:47am_ ** **;** “ _ Wear one of my shirts today. _ ”

 

You snorted a laugh, typing a short response back.

 

**You** **_6:47am;_ ** “ _ Kinky. _ ”

 

Tossing your phone back on the bed, you wandered to the closet and pulled the switch, peering inside. Lined up, in the very back, where your treasures, the shirts and spare sweats you had stolen from the members of the Bowers Gang over the years. You had more pieces of Vic’s wardrobe than anyone's, all sorts of his clothing both in your closet and tucked into the drawers of your dresser. Mostly you stole his jeans, shirts and pajamas, while everyone else would just end up missing shirts or spare sweats. Belch’s shirts wear nearly dresses on you, hitting your mid thighs and loose, perfect for lounging around. Henry’s sweats hung nicely on your hips, all worn out and comfy, where as Patricks various shirts served for more day to say use. Band shirts, his cartoon t shirts and the random flannel could be found, having once belonged to the lanky boy, but now locked up tight in your prize case, ready to be used at your disposal.

You counted your lucky stars that you had accumulated such a magnificent stash before the lastest hijinks you had gotten yourself into, and while tugging on a pair of jeans, you thought about what shirt to wear that would be obvious enough to be Patrick’s. You shared a decently similar style, jeans and band shirts, dark colors, but he always touched closer to grungey punk, while you went for comfy and reliable clothes that could be used for layering in winter and repeated use in the summer.

So, you reasoned, something darker maybe. A Deftones shirt? You knew you had stolen at least one, since the asshole had an overwhelming collection of them, and you began to shift through the shirts on the hanger, watching each piece pass you, unimpressed with what you saw until a faded yellow fabric slid into your view.

You paused, fiddling with its red collar as you plucked it from the lineup. The artist rendition of Tom from Tom and Jerry was a little disturbing and odd looking to say the least, but the tongue lapping feline had been part of your freshmen adventures with Patrick almost daily, the shirt arguably his favorite for the first year or two of high school before he slowly stopped wearing it all together. At some point after spending the night at his home, with Vic, Belch, and Henry of course, you had gotten to opportunity to tuck it in your bag and never looked back. 

He had never commented on its loss before, and you had never gotten around to wearing it… Until today, because without a second's hesitation, you forgot about the Deftones shirt and peeled off the tank top you had worn to bed, tossing on a nice bra and tugging the t shirt over your head without a thought.

It fit surprisingly, as Patrick had been damn skinny in freshman year and had only recently grown some actual muscle to his boney body in recent years which made his shirts wearable, and it wrinkled slightly from being left dormant for so long. You went to your vanity, smoothing the fabric down and noting how soft it felt, admiring your reflection with the smallest smile.

You went to work on basic  makeup, mascara and nude eyeshadow, with just chapstick on your lips and a nice shaping of your brows. You didn’t have anyone to impress, but you had found that being in the Trans-Am with Carly while she was done up to the nines had put a little bit of pressure in your subconscious to try a little harder, so minimal makeup was your best efforts at meeting your issues in the middle.

You barely had time to stick your converse on before the front door opened and you heard a thunder of feet head up the stairs, your heart suddenly ramming against your chest, not prepared to have Patrick see you just yet.

“Ay! We’re here!”

Vic opened your door with a shove, looking in to find you hopping around with one shoe on, flustered and red cheeked. “Wow, someones late-”

He paused, taking in your choice of outfit, and clamped his mouth shut, lips pursing.

“Say nothing.” You whispered harshly, catching the fluttering heartbeat you had and easing into your other shoe, tying the laces and snatching up your backpack, weaving around the smug faced blond.

“Oh, my, god.” He followed close behind, the smirk evident in his voice as you stomped down the stairs, flustered and tying your hair up in a messy, but you hoped stylish, bun. “You did it?”

“See ya Kiddo!” You heard your father call from upstairs, his voice muffled and distant as you tried to race out the door, away from the taunting words of your best friend.

“Love you dad!” You yelled back, opening the front door with a harsh tug.

You saw him from the front porch, Patrick leaning against the side of the Trans-Am with his arms crossed and a pair of circular black sunglasses on his nose, mouth set in a firm line. Carly stood beside Henry, the both of them sucking face while your new (fake) boyfriend had to watch on in disgust, the grip Henry applied to Carly’s hip surely bruising.

But you didnt care, you barely saw them, because when you saw Patrick standing there at the curbside waiting for you, your heart flew to your throat and your stomach twisted and flipped.

“That's not all you love, Princess.” Vic said under his breath with the slyest of cackles, winding around you and hopping down your stairs, making his way to the car and leaving you to catch up.

You slammed your door, following with a brisk pace back to the Trans-Am and watching as Vic ducked inside the vehicle, Patrick peeling himself from the side and stepping towards you, lips switching from a frown to a grin at the sight of you. He took off the sunglasses, tucking them into the collar of his leather jacket.

“Morning, Sweetheart.” He said, voice still so velvety with that pet name that you could have melted there, but you didn’t, coming closer as Carly and Henry parted with a wet pop, Henry’s hair disheveled and Carly’s lipstick untouched.

“Morning.” You brushed close against him and he, as if knowing exactly what you were going for, reached to push a stray lock you had missed in your rushed hairstyle behind your ear.

The two of you had done something like this thousands of times of before, in front of Henry, in front of anyone, but the act right then and there certainly had a different air to it when Patrick’s eyes held yours for a second too long on purpose and his lips twitched into a smirk.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Henry’s eyes flicker between you, and the dark haired boy dropped his hand, slipping inside to let you follow. Per usual, you dropped into his lap, his arms tucking themselves around your waist and hip, securing you as Carly got in and Henry shoved the seat up, blue eyes finding the two of you again before he took his seat in the passenger side and buckled himself in, Belch driving off.

“Morning Reggie, how’re you?”

“Good, Ma said to tell you that she thinks she can get the camper out of storage, so the plans a go.” The buzz cut boy gave you a lazy thumbs up and you blinked, confused for a moment before suddenly being reminded of plans you had made months earlier.

“Oh, shit that's right. Spring break, camping. Shit, awesome. I don't want to share a tent with Vic again, he always complains the entire fucking trip and I swear to go he talks about in his sleep too.”

Vic scoffed at your side. “Excuse the fuck outta me, you’re just looking to get me kicked out of tent, ass.”

“Patrick wakes up every hour because you mutter or move around.” You reminded him with a frown.

“Yeah, I’m tired of that shit. At least [First Name] finds a spot and passes out for the night. I don't have to worry about her flipping over and smacking me in the face with her arm.” Your personal seatbelt chimed in.

“Don't get all excited, assholes.” Belch said smugly, raising his eyebrows. “My camper’s only got one bed and a fold out couch. Which means I’m gettin’ the bed, and Vic can have the couch. You four can all share tents.”

There was a collective groan from everyone but Carly, who seemed a little lost.

“Belch, come on.” Henry ragged, whining. “Let me and Carly take the couch at least, man.”

“Nah. Y’all are gonna fuck. Vic gets the couch because Patrick and [First Name] are kicking him out. You four can get tents, case closed.”

“Camping on spring break? Where?” Carly wondered aloud, peeking at you to answer.

While tucked safely in Patrick’s arms you didn't feel the need to reach over and strangle the life from her lungs, so you politely answered, not daring to glance at her, eyes on the road ahead.

“The guys and I go camping over by Debsconeag Lakes, and hike a little. There are cool campsites, and fishing is pretty good this time of year, the lakes aren’t frozen and stuff. It's cheap, and we can drink and party in peace. It's fun, trust me. You’ll like it.”

“Well I’m fuckin’ pumped.” Vic said sarcastically. “I’m so excited to try and sleep in the camper while listening to Henry and Carly get it on like five feet from the door.”

Carly turned beet red while Henry bared a white toothed grin, laughing at Vic. “You fucking wish you could hear the-”

Carly smacked the back of his headrest, and Henry dropped his words, smart enough to be a little ashamed. “Sorry Babe.”

Behind you, Patrick shifted a little, curling his chin close to your neck and murmuring into the ear facing Carly, his breath playing against your cheek.

“I can think of some things we could do too, Princess.”

The ebony haired girl registered a look of mild surprise in her big grey eyes, having clearly heard what was said, while the roar of the Trans-Am drowned out what Patrick told you in the front.

You played along, and leaned back just a tad, giving a soft laugh under your breath and brushing lips against the cut of his jaw. “Save that for later, ‘Trick.”

Patrick hummed, grey-green eyes scanning your face before giving a quick peck to your temple, unseen by the front but clearly on display for Vic and Carly, the later of whom blinked in utter confusion, the former grinning devilishly.

“Love the shirt.” The dark haired boy said, Belch finally turning on some music, Pantera by the heavy beat you recognized, and he slid a hand up from your hip to the hem of your shirt, toying with the red lining. “I wondered where it was.”

“In my closet. I also have your Deftones 2005 Portland Tour shirt too, if you want that back.” You weaved fingers with his, stopping encroaching fingers from skimming the skin of your stomach.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll get around to grabbin’ it one of these days.” Patrick pressed your shared hand against the warmth of your stomach, still sliding a hand under the fabric, challenging you instantly.

You squirmed a little, but his hold tightened and as Belch took a final turn towards Derry High, he nuzzled his nose against the crook of your shoulder. “Don't you dare.” He murmured almost inaudibly, and you flinched when you felt a quick drag of his teeth against the skin of your neck.

“The fuck are y’all doin’ back there?” Henry piped up as Patrick retracted what you were already considering to be his  _ fangs _ , leaning his gaze to watch the sandy blond with a careful eye. Henry’s azure hues bore into the both of you from the rear mirror, and the smooth expression you wore under his hold slowly began to slip.

“Nothin’.” Patrick said innocently enough, and you felt his warm breath drift across the dampness he left against your skin.

Belch, curious too, peeked in the rear view mirror as he pulled into the parking lot, a few other vehicles present as well. You fought to keep a facade, nodding at Henry.

“Well? Get out, I don’t want to be stuck in here for fucking ever, dude. Patrick is only a good chair for so long.”

Henry threw open the door with a gruff grunt, Belch doing the same as the two slid their chairs back to allow you and the three others out. Some shuffling and curses later, everyone stood side by side, everyone sharing morning cigarettes before class. Carly stood on the outskirts, beside Henry but away from the worst of the smoke clouds, scrolling through her phone and letting Henry wrap an arm around her shoulders.

You and Patrick complimented them, his long lanky hold tight on your own bare shoulders, having forgotten a jacket, and sharing a cigarette between you. Vic and Henry spoke nonsense, Belch joining in while the two of you stood silent, you wondering what steps you could take the next few days to progress the relationship, while Patrick remained unreadable.

He took long drags, handing you the cigarette back without a word and rubbing his thumb against the end of your shoulder every once in a while. It kept you grounded, and you didn’t have to fight to keep your thoughts together. It was nice to finally be at ease in the group again, even if you were running a scam of sorts, the return of Henry’s friendlier side was a breath of fresh air while the closeness with Patrick was welcomed and seriously needed.

You had no idea how touched starved you wore until that moment, and while you sucked on the filter of your cigarette you found irony in the situation. You finally get a boyfriend after a few years of going stag, and you can't even do shit with him. He’s a prop, technically, and your best friend. It wasn’t like you could grab him by the shoulders and force your lips against his and beg him to ravish you in the janitors closet.

That shit wasn’t happening with Patrick, no matter how much you would love to play out the fantasy, considering the hidden feelings you locked away for said boy. 

You scanned your phone, checking the time, and sighed, handing the butt end to Patrick, who happily took it off your hands and downed the last drags the cigarette could offer.

You blew smoke from your mouth, breaking from him. “It’s like five minutes until class, guys. I’m out.”

“Oh, jesus, me too. I got AP Chem to get to.” Carly shook herself from her zombie like state that had begun since she pulled out her phone, leaning up to give Henry a kiss on his cheek. “Love you, baby.”

“Love ya too.” Henry bent down, stealing an extra kiss despite the smoke that had curled from his mouth just moments before. Carly swatted him away afterwards, but was all smiles.

You rose a handin farewell, pushing your backpack higher on your shoulder and facing away from Patrick, bidding the others goodbye. “See ya in homeroom, guys.”

The guys gave their normal goodbyes and you turned to Patrick, figuring a nice but obvious touch of the shoulder would be a good way to show some affection, and offered a smile, reaching up to do so when you wrist was suddenly snatched from the air and you were tugged forward.

Patrick breathed the last of his drag, the sweet smelling smoke writhing from between his lips as he flicked his cigarette butt away before he descended, bending down and catching your lips with his. He tasted like nicotine. Almost too sweet from the cloves, with lips that were just slightly chapped but all too experienced. He tilted his head, and your lips parted without prompt, where he lightly swiped his tongue against yours before pulling back. 

He pressed a drier kiss, a peck really, against your own and smirked down, his eyes smoldering and too bright.

“See you soon, Sweetheart.”

At a loss for words you gaped, completely fried and short circuited and all around fucked.

“Uh. Yeah.”

If those lips could stretch even more, they would have, but Patrick dropped your wrist and allowed you to spin away. You saw everyone's expressions when you did so, and your cheeks burned in both horror and embarrassment, finding everyone besides Vic, who was clapping and shaking his head and looking almost proud, to be stunned and wide eyed.

“Oh, just,  **fuck** .” You swore loudly, and stormed off, stomping across the parking lot as students jumped to part like the red sea for you.

That was not part of the plan.

That had  _ not _ been the part of the fucking plan.

But fuck you if you didn’t absolutely love it.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

You slid out of third period like a woman on a mission, tearing through a sea of your peers with eyes like fire, a storm by all rights, weaving between the smaller of the lot and shoving aside those you knew were old enough to take the hits. Someone had to be the recipient of your shit mood, and since it couldn’t be Patrick Hockstetter’s stupid fucking face, it might as well be the shoulders of students who were taking their sweet ass time in the halls. **  
**

You cut through the main building within a minute, bursting out the east side and stomping through grass towards the track fields that would near the gang’s favorite smoking spot under a tangled and gnarl limbed oak tree, where the shade was cooling in the summer and no teachers cared to check under for students during the spring and winter because it was too far from the warmth the school buildings held.

There was only a single body there today for passing period, the most notorious and addicted smoker of the group, your fake boyfriend and soon to be victim, Patrick Hockstetter himself.

He saw you approach, all grins and bright eyed, peeling himself from the trunk of the oak and flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Hey babe-”

“Don’t you fucking _even_ , Hockstetter.” You warned with a hiss, puffing up and grinding your teeth.

The dark haired boy licked the underside of his teeth, and his lips pulled into a tighter grin, clearly thrilled by your reaction.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Angry?” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, but you smacked it to the ground with a wave of your hand and dropped a heel on it, grinding the butt into the mulch and dirt with a snarl.

“Angry? Angry is an underestimate, you dickweed.” You jutted a finger out, knowing better than to actually touch him, as that would be asking for more than your fair share of trouble. You wanted to make a point, not end up with a hand wrapped around your throat and on Patrick’s shit list. “You fucked us. We were supposed to take it slow. Slow. S-L-O-W.”

You saw the length of his jaw tighten, his shoulders tilting as he considered you with a dimmer look in his eyes. He raked a glare down your form, and you felt a prickle of warning shoot through you, those grey-green eyes finding yours and boring into you.

“So?”

“So?” You repeated, jaw unhinged and eyes wide. You gave an incredulous laugh, throwing your hand away from him and up in the air, turning just slightly to collect yourself. You whirled back, emulating the way his tongue had run the length of his teeth and continued, with a thin voice and tight posture. “So. Kissing me in front of Henry like that isn’t slow. That should have happened later, way later, ‘Trick.”

“No.” He said simply, watching you intensely and taking a step closer to you, hovering high above with his impressive height. “That would make it more suspicious, Princess. Think about it. When have I never forgone PDA? My girls walk away from kisses stumbling and lost. They’re walking bowlegged within hours of being mine. They got bruises. Bitemarks. Hickeys.”

A finger came to trace along the collar of your shirt, and he frowned. “You want this to work? You want to convince Henry we’re fuckin’?”

“Dating not fucking.” You snapped, nostrils flaring.

“Same fuckin’ thing, sweetheart.” Patrick challenged, tugging at the neckline and glowering down at the smooth skin he found. “Henry’s not gonna think I changed my ways just because we’re shacking up. I let everyone know what’s mine, I mark my territory. If you’re my girl, you’re gonna have to get used to shit like what happened this morning, and more.”

You snatched his wrist and bent the hand back and away from you, grinding your teeth. “I’m not a week long bender for you to toy with and trash, and we’re not giving Henry that fucking idea. We’re dating. Not fucking, and I’m going to remind you that there is a difference. This,” You dropped his hand, gesturing between you. “Is fake. We aren’t lovers. We’re joy riding the dynamic of the group in hopes Henry will dump Carly out of frustration or something of the like.”

“You think Henry will buy that we’re dating if you aren’t sporting hickeys?” Patrick rose an eyebrow, amused. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

“No I don’t, but I wanted to ease into this, Patrick. I am not going to have Henry or Belch thinking that I’d get together with you and just let you do whatever you want to me. I don’t care who I’m dating, I sure as hell wouldn’t let them walk all over me.”

You crossed your arms, glaring up at him with a hard frown. “I am not Amber. Or Shannon. Or Bowie. I’d stand up for myself if you pulled some scummy shit in front of the guys, and you know it. The kiss, by all rights, wasn’t bad. Just ill timed. I wanted to ease into it, to make Henry guess that something was going on, and have him catch us kissing at a party or something.”

“I just sped things up, I don’t see why you’re complaining.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, shuffling a foot against the ground. “But you know I’m right. Henry won’t believe shit if you don’t walk around sporting a hickey or two.”

“I get that.” You gave him a curt purse of your lips. “But I’m angry you completely ignored what I told you today and kissed me like that so soon, and that you expected me to… I dont know, act like any of your other girlfriends? I’m still me, dating you or not. I’m not going to let some guy do what he wants- anytime he wants.”

Patrick’s lips twitched, eyes hard. “Well maybe I’m angry you thought you could use me for your own gain.”

He straightened, and began in a tone that mocked the authoritative one you had used just before. “And maybe I’m still me, even if we are dating. I’m not going to let some girl do what she wants and order me around, anytime she wants, you know? Wouldn’t that bother you too,  _sweetheart_?”

Ah. There is was.

“Patrick, I already apologized for how I acted last night.” You sighed, finally,  _finally_  getting what the root of the problem was.

He was still pissed, insulted, that you had played it off as if you were going to use him. Though the fact of the matter had been that you were going to, it was clear now at last, that it would take two to tango, and that you would have to volley him some control. This was Patrick after all, he had never really been one for taking a submissive role in anything really- even going as far as to take a leadership role when Henry was trashed for a night or absent for an evening hangout.

The dark haired boy’s eyes searched your face, catching how the realization dawned slowly on you before he gave a soft sigh.

“Alright. I had my fun.” He admitted, raising both his hands in surrender. “Dick move, but I feel you deserved it, at least a bit.”

“I did.” You agreed, unfurling your arms and reaching up to smack down his gently, the hostility in you lost. “It’s my fault for making this all about me. I’m not the only one pulling weight here, you’re right to act a fool in this situation. Granted, dick move, but I see where you’re coming from.”

He dropped his hands, using one to scratch the inside of his other palm while he regarded you with some ounce of consideration. “Is it just now dawning on you that its a partnership, and not a dictatorship, Princess? You can’t expect me to follow along without calling some shots.”

“Yeah,” You said loftily, and took a step back, nodding towards the school buildings. “Now… Let’s get to homeroom, ‘Trick.”

He snorted a laugh, brushing past you and heading back to class. “Good talk, Princess.”

The walk back to class was a comfortable silence, the waters calm between the two of you now that you had wrapped up your little spat and seen both sides of the equation. Patrick wanted it to be known that he had just as much of a role as a shot caller as you did, and you wanted him to understand that you couldn’t be treated like some washed up booty call he could dial at a moment’s notice, especially when outside of public affection, nothing would be happening sexually.

There was too much history between the two of you for him to dilute you to just arm candy, and in turn there was too much respect built over the years for you to toss him under you in terms of a partnership. The balance was going to be a hard one to find, but you hoped that by the end of the month, during the spring break camping trip, that it would be settled.

Tardy as all hell, the pair of you slipped into class like nothing was out of the ordinary, Mrs. Clever less than thrilled to see either of you entering her class so late. A quick glance at the clock just above the whiteboard showed you had arrived almost seven minutes late in fact. Not the worst time, sure, but not the best either.

“Glad you could finally make it to class, Ms. [Last Name], Mr. Hockstetter.” Your teacher almost sneered, Patrick making his way to the back of the class where his seat sat, and you plopping down in the empty desk beside Vic- who was beaming at the sight of you two arriving together.

“Sorry ma’am,” Patrick drawled, dropping down in his seat with a stomp of his boots. “Got held up.”

Mrs. Clever’s jaw tightened, the seniors tone clearly sarcastic and just a bit insulting, but she brushed it off, clearing her throat and returning to the whiteboard, where she resumed scribbling nonsense for the lesson.

It took all but a millisecond for Vic to throw all caution to the wind and send you a text, which you happily ignored, bending an elbow against the desk and resting your chin in the cup of your palm, backpack forgotten in your locker and notebook nowhere to be found. It was your own fault, you had shoved the damn thing in without a thought before classes started, and had wandered the halls without it for the better part of the morning. You reminded yourself that, god dammit, you needed to grab it before gym, since you had brought a spare set of gym clothes to swap with the older pair.

Your pocket vibrated once more and your eyes slid to Vic, who played innocent and shoved his smartphone in his camo jacket pocket, clicking his tongue when your gaze found him.

“Later.” You whispered, tapping your chin with a finger from the hand that held it.

Vic rolled his eyes, but gave a half shrug, lazily leaning back in his chair and transitioning his focus to the teacher, who rambled on about nonsensical things while you zoned out, too caught up in your thoughts to care.

You felt a prickle of static ride your neck, forcing you to shift uncomfortably and peek over your shoulder. Your eyes found Patrick in the very back of the class and last in his row, right beside the window, then Henry sitting near the direct middle of the class while Belch was seated in the opposite back corner of the room to Patrick. They had all been separated ages ago, simply because when the bowers gang sat beside each other, nothing in class could be done because of how loud and disruptive they would become, Henry especially.

You had expected to see Patrick’s eyes on you, but they were hyper focused on something outside his window, and instead you found harsh baby blues staring at the back of your head, Henry’s knee bouncing as he tapped his pencil against the desk in front of him.

He rose an eyebrow, his mouth a thin line, and you quickly returned to the whiteboard, dreading what was to come.

You had peeled out of the parking lot before much could be done about the infamous goodbye kiss your fake boyfriend had pulled out of his ass, and you highly doubted Patrick would have explained himself to Henry and the others. Vic didn’t need an explanation by any means, but Belch and Henry sure as hell were going to demand one by the time lunch hit.

You glanced up at the clock. You had forty minutes to come up with a game plan, or else you were going to be sucking on air like a fish out of water and look like a complete idiot.

Damn Patrick and his stupid impulsive nature.

The bell rang, cutting off Mrs. Clever mid sentence as the thunder of students throwing themselves up from seats drowned out her words.

“Remember! We’re testing on this-”

Her words were lost on you as you stood in time with the others, feeling jittery at the looming interaction to come during lunch period and dreading the outcome. Was Henry going to be pissed? Were you counting on that? You couldn’t quite remember, and when a heavy arm was thrown over your shoulders and you craned your neck up to find a sharp nose and tanned skin, you felt your heart catch in your throat from panic.

“Hockstetter? Really?” Henry scoffed, easily herding you towards the door and out into the halls. Students parted for the two of you, your path clear as long as Henry was in charge of guiding you. “I get that edgy faggoty pretty boys are your type, but Hockstetter?”

You tried for a laugh, ducking out from under his arm and scratching at your neck, noticing how the other boys hung back despite the open space left for them. Belch and Patrick watched on a bit wearily, while Vic tried to distract them with some talk, his mouth flapping loose as he went on and on.

“We, uh…” You hesitated, falling instep with your friend and thinking hard.

Dancing around the subject was never your strong suit. You had always been the most outspoken on any and every subject, arguing your point until you didn’t have the air in your lungs left to do so. You would just look more guilty if you continued you be coy and embarrassed. You knew your best bet was projecting how you would feel in a situation where you and Patrick were actually dating, and considering you had real true feelings towards the guy, it wouldn’t be so hard to do, even in the moment. You bit the inside of your cheek, took a deep breath, and thanked god above Vic had dragged you to his theater camp all through middle school.

Time to pull a (hopefully) oscar worthy performance out of your ass.

“I like him, a lot.” You started, turning a corner with the blond as his eyes set on you. “I’ve kinda liked him for a long time, and when you started dating Carly, I realized that I wanted that too. A relationship, and one with someone I had really good chemistry with. This was a long time coming, we’ve had so much romantic tension you could cut the shit with a knife, you know? Patrick’s been my friend longer then he’s been my boyfriend, obviously, and we’re so close that I’d think it’s safe to say that if it didn’t work out, that we’d still be friends afterwards. ”

“Thats a lot of hope to put in Patrick, [First Name]. He ain’t the type to fuck and forgive, he don’t make friends with his girls, he fucks them and forgets them.” You heard a tinge of worry in Henry’s words to your surprise, not anger. “You say you like him, and I get that you guys are close. Close as fuck, I thought you two were a thing last year, but then you dated that Abe guy so I shrugged it off. But still, I mean…”

He sucked his teeth, thinking.

“You’re worried?” You offered, nudging him with a small smile. “I can handle myself. It’s ‘Trick. I know him, and I know myself too. I’d jump ship if things got too fucked.”

“Its Hockstetter. You’re already fucked.” The blond shrugged a shoulder. “You say you like the guy. I can’t stop you, but don’t let it fucking take over your life, alright? No jeopardizing the gang because you two have a little fight. I’m not picking sides, neither are the others.”

“You know you’d pick a side and Reggie would pick whatever side you thought was right, and Vic would take my side. Don’t kid yourself, and don’t _worry_.” You stressed the words, the two of you approaching the doors to the cafeteria. “I know what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have agreed to date him if I didn’t know the risks.”

“Just don’t come crying to me if he breaks your heart.” Henry said tartly, chewing the inside of his cheek as he shoved the doors open and stepped inside, almost knocking some poor kid over in his wake.

The kid stumbled back, a tray of food in his hands, but seemed unharmed. He shot Henry a dirty look, dark eyes burning as they followed Henry’s retreating back.

“Careful Tozier.” You warned lightly, crossing his path. “He’s in a mood.”

The freckled boy pursed his lips as the rest of the bowers gang swarmed to gather behind you, all with varying degrees of malice in their eyes. A favorite victim of theirs, but a smart mouth by all rights, Richie Tozier considered you with the smallest of smiles.

“Your majesty, it’s been a pleasure.” He mocked a bow with one arm stretched out, quick to make his escape as Vic took a step forward.

“Twerp.” Vic snapped as he raced off, and you hooked an arm over the blond’s shoulder, swinging to into the direction of the lunch line.

“Lay off him. It’s been a hectic enough day.”

Belch grunted behind you, and you heard the stomp of Patrick boots while you led the boys to the tray holders to grab your meals.

The day followed easily, tensions dismal between anyone in the gang, and everyone slipping back into almost normal routines. Aside from a quick mention from Carly during lunch of how she wasn’t surprised the you and Patrick were  _finally_  together, no one spoke of the sudden pairing.

By the time school let out your jittery attitude had toned down significantly and your worries had settled. Things were going smoothly enough you decided, slamming your locker closed and clicking the lock shut, drifting down the halls with a confident tug of your shoulders.

There was buzz going through the school, chatter ramping through the mouths and ears of the Derry high seniors that you had picked up on as the day went by, though you could honestly care less.

Ryan Burns was throwing a party apparently. Talk of the school, it seemed, and everyone was gearing up for the big throw down.

You heard there was going to be booze and good music, that his parents were out of town for the week to visit their home state of Texas to see some stupid flowers and that the party would be legendary since he’d have ages to clean up afterwards. Held in the boonies near Henry’s farm, you knew the probability of being dragged there tonight was plausible, but hoped that Vic’s dance practice or Belch’s football commitment would at least cut into the amount of time you’d have to spend there with everyone.

Parties were exhausting as hell with your boys. Patrick usually raged through the crowds and sold his designer drugs to inexperienced high schoolers with a nefarious glint in his eyes, Belch would spend his nights glued to the beer pong tables and get a pleasant buzz (though there were times when you had to be the one to drive Amy and drop everyone off instead of his shitfaced self), while Henry used to just slink around and look for a piece of ass, though with Carly at his side, you knew he would be sucking face in a corner and get perpetually fucked up as the night went on… and then there was Victor.

You loved Vic. He was your best friend, but  _man_  was he a pain in the ass at parties. He’d smoke, drink until he couldn’t stand, and dance with anyone and anything with legs and a fine ass. He was nothing but slutty grinding, devious grins and drunken laughter. The fact that he wandered when high didn’t help either, and you knew that unless you handcuffed yourself to him at Ryan’s party, that you would surely have a repeat of Carly’s party from a few weeks before.

Slipping between cliques and shouldering your backpack high on your shoulder, you perked up at the mention of your name.

“[First Name]!” called a voice, and you turned your head, slowing in the halls out of curiosity.

With a dashing smile and angelic curls, Ryan burns descended, soft brown eyes warm as he clapped a hand to your shoulder, only removing it when you shrugged it off, returning his infectious smile nonetheless.

“Hey, you and the gang coming to my party?” He shifted his letterman jacket that was tucked under his arm to the side, patting his pockets down before procuring a wrinkled and folded yellow flyer, handing it to you. “Wouldn’t be the same without you guys lurking around and causin’ trouble, y’know?”

“Not sure, but I’ll ask the guys.” You took the paper, opening it up, memorizing the address, then stuffing it into your back pocket. “I’m sure they’ve heard about it by now, realistically. But you know, Belch has football tonight, Vic’s got dance.”

Ryan was a friendly guy, sweet by all means, and wouldn’t hurt a fly. A stark comparison to your friends for sure, but he was arguably the most open minded senior in your year and had always tried to build a bridge between you and the bowers gang, though you never knew if it was out of fear, or because he honestly wanted a good relationship with you and the guys. His dad owned the diner the bowers gang frequented and if he was working there after school, he always made a point to stop by your table and make amicable chatter. Henry liked him enough, and even Patrick could stand his goody two shoes presence, and you felt free to like him too. You couldn’t remember a single day he had been nasty to you or the gang, so his up front invite was welcomed all the same.

“Cool, cool. Try to come if you can, of course. Carly’s been really excited about showing Bowers off, so I’m sure she’s going to beg for you all to come. Might as well make a night of it, right? Plus, Donnie’s aching to take Patrick and Belch down at beer pong after our last defeat.” He assured you with a chuckle, and you nodded along, allowing a small laugh yourself.

“See you when I see you, Burns. Have a blast if we don’t meet up tonight, dude.” You gave the track star a genuine grin as you stepped away, parting from the exchange with intent to head over to the parking lot and meet the others by the Trans-Am.

He waved you off, spinning away and slipping into the threads of your peers, greeting people left and right while sharing a token beaming smile, so angelic and radiant as he left you to run off.

Ryan Burns. You waded through crowds, thinking about him. Cute, cool, and oh so sweet.

If it weren’t for the pesky crush you had on Patrick, maybe you would have attempted to ask the senior out by now. Donnie Parker, his best friend, was a smoking hot piece of ass too, way more shy and reserved, but with his soft ebony waves and big blue eyes, he was a heart stopper by all rights.

In passing, you saw another crown of black hair, though styled in his normally grungey fashion it wasn’t nearly as greasy thanks to his evening shower the night before, and he stalked towards you with a tilt to his shoulders and a tired look in his normally bright eyes.

You slowed, and he caught up with you easily, long legs closing the distance without a problem as he ushered you to continue down the hall wordlessly, a long arm coming to wrap around your middle.

“Tell the guys I got shit to do.” Patrick said, but he tugged at your waist, lowering his mouth to your ear to whisper something else. “Meet me at my house.”

And just like that, with a tight squeeze on your side, he slipped away, leaving you alone in the halls as he weaved in and out between students and hunched his shoulders.

“Alright..?” You said to no one, sighing and finally making your way to the east exit, which faced the sport fields and parking lot, the sun coming out to play as you headed down the stone staircase and sought out familiar faces.

A bright speck of auburn hair catched your attention, but you passed Beverly Marsh and the skinny form of Richie Tozier without a thought, a quick inhale of the smoke from the cigarette they smoked together making you yearn for one and you mentally cursed Patrick for departing without sharing a smoke with you.

When you finally spied the wicked blue of Amy, Belch’s Trans-Am, you were surprised to only see Vic leaning against the frame, carefully scrolling through his phone and tapping ash to the cement from his cigarette.

You swooped in, taking his cigarette and earning an irritated scoff when you brought it to your lips and sucked on the filter.

“Ugh, fucking gross.” You coughed and sputtered minty and medicine like tasting smoke, smacking your mouth open and closed to get the taste out while handing the death stick back to the blond who grinned victoriously. “You monster.”

“Menthol. Your favorite.” He punctuated his words with a hit from his cigarette, blowing the smoke in your direction and laughing as you dived out of the way.

“Literally the worst human invention outside zoodle spiralizer. I would rather eat zucchini noodles for eighty five years straight than smoke another menthol cigarette, I’m so glad Patrick switched to clove cigs.” You glanced around. “Reggie able to take us home today?”

“Dunno, probably not. He said he’d meet us by the car after school though. Where’s Patrick?”

“To quote him ‘I’ve got shit to do’ so, he’s probably out dealing.” You shrugged, but waved a hand when you saw a baseball capped head and hulking body of a football player come into view a few yards away. “Reggie! Whats up!”

Belch sauntered over, keys in hand as sucked his teeth. “Coach told me I got ten to drop y’all off and come back. Where’s Hen and Pat?”

“Patrick is out and about,” You said, watching Belch round the front of Amy and unlock his door. He leaned a toned arm over, unlocking the passenger side as Vic threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped out the butt with the heel of his vans. “But I’ve got no clue about Henry.”

You tugged open the door, pulling back the passenger seat and climbing into the back, allowing Vic the rare honor of sitting in the front. Belch gave a grunt, Vic getting in and slamming the door shut behind him as your friend put keys into his ignition and Amy roared to life. Black Sabbath’s heavy guitar and bass vibrated through old speakers, but with the following drum beat, it became welcomed white noise to talk over as Belch turned down the volume.

“Well, he knows the rules. Be at the car by the time I’m there, or no ride home.” He pulled off his cap, running a big hand over the closely buzzed sides of his head and the slightly longer length on top. He placed the cap back on, jerking his car out of park and pulling out to slowly drive alongside other cars attempting to leave the parking lot. “[First Name], I’m dropping you off first, since Vic is on the way back.”

“Coolio, drop me off at Patrick’s. He wants me to meet him there later.” You pulled your backpack to your lap while Belch and Vic shared a look in the front, one that you ignored.

To their credit, neither dared to say a word… For about thirty seconds anyhow.

“So…Dating?” Belch started off innocently, peeking back at you through the rear view mirror as the car in front crawled to leave. “Like, for real dating?”

“Yeah, like for real dating.” You deadpanned, raising an eyebrow, waiting for what he really wanted to ask.

There was quiet between the three of you, Belch tapping his gnawed on nails against the steering wheel in a similar rhythm to the song playing over the crackle of the speakers. Vic swiftly tapped along the screen of his phone, and you kept eye contact with the mirror, still waiting.

“So, uh… Why?” Came the follow up, his words making Vic threaten a smile, while you settled against he tan leather of the back seat and clicked your tongue absently.

“Kinda just happened. It was a long time coming, especially since we’re so close, you know?”

“Okay. sure. But Pat? No offense to Pat or yourself, but he’s a fuckin’ hot mess, [First Name].” Big brown eyes sought your own in the rear view mirror and you dropped your gaze to the windshield, watching as Belch finally pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“This doesn’t leave Amy,” He warned quickly, inhaling sharply through his nose as he considered his next words. “But don’t you think you could…”

“Oh please, please, tell me you’re about to say ‘ _do better_ ’.” Vic drawled, leaning forward with a devilish smirk. “Those assholes are made for each other. Edgy boy meets the Bowers Gang Queen? Please, [First Name] spent way too much time pining after him to say no to that boy. Think about it. Dan Wilkins? Collin Freely? Abraham Terrence? What do they all have in common. Go on, think about it, I’ll wait.”

You knew what they all had in common. Aside from being your past flings and lost lovers, they all had niches for black hair dye, torn up jeans, scuffed docs and listening to alternative or hardcore bands. Dan had pierced his lip and tongue and wore copious amounts of eyeliner, Collin was all about the scraped up knuckles and bruised jaw from fights, leaving Abraham to be the more sullen an cynical one of the trio, a goth with a love for Bauhaus and who told you over and over that you were his one and only.

Abraham had scared you off with all his commitment talk, while Dan and Collin had wound up boring you to tears and forcing your hand before long, the break ups messy and streaked with typical hounding for a while before they allowed you to drop them like the dead weight they were.

“They were all creeps?” You said hopefully, Vic scoffing at your answer.

“Wrong.” He sang, to which Belch frowned.

“They all… kinda looked like Pat?” The football player guessed, slow to the roll.

“Ding, Ding, Ding. We have a winner.” Vic praised, and you sunk deep into the back seat. “Though Collin was a total thug and I’m glad he ended up moving to Portland in junior year, you’re right. [First Name]’s got a type, and his name is Patrick Hockstetter. The edgelord himself, weird fire kink and all.”

“Hey, Abraham was way different from Patrick, in my defense. Abe was goth, Patrick is into alternative and metal, and dresses like grunge hit him over the head with a shovel for good measure.”

Vic snorted a laugh, Belch turning down familiar streets as he followed your argument.

“Plus Abe was all about commitment. I’m sure that’s gonna be a fun battle with ‘Trick.”

You shot the blond a warning look, and leaned with an outstretched arm, ready to flick his ear in retaliation. He leaned away with a cackle, Belch still catching up with the two of you.

“So you dated all those boys ‘cuz you were, uh, what’s the word?”

“Projecting.” Vic added helpfully from his position against the passenger door, smooshed up against it in attempt to evade your waiting hand.

“Projectin’ how you felt for Pat onto those guys?” Belch finished, and you sighed, accepting the hand you were being dealt and hanging off the passenger seat with your head between the front seats.

“Yeah. I guess. I’ve had a thing for him for a while, and I was too scared to say anything until a few days ago.” You lied easily, but felt the truth wiggle through as you continued. “I was worried us dating would ruin what we have as friends, or that he’d refuse to date me and it would make us play at odds for a while until I could sort my feelings for him out… I like him, a lot. He’s important to me, I’m obviously attracted to him physically, and we have good chemistry.”

Silence again, but now contemplative between the three of you. Vic was in on the plan and knew the truth, but Belch had certainly been at a loss at first, confused and thrown off by the sudden development between you and Patrick, his friends who seemingly randomly decided to date. Despite being blindsided, it was obvious that Belch was worried. He cared for you that much as obvious, and even though Patrick was his friend, he knew that the boy wasn’t exactly known for being a gold star lover, and you appreciated that he reached out to make sure you knew what you were doing.

That was love, the real platonic stuff that you knew no one outside of the bowers gang would see from your boys, and it warmed your heart.

“I like him, Reggie.” You said softly, leaning your head to prop your chin on his shoulder. “I know what I’m doing. Patrick isn’t a mystery to me, I know him.”

“My bro or not, I’ll pop him in the mouth if he hurts you, just give me the word.” He assured you sternly, relaxing just the slightest when you rolled your head back and gave a heavy laugh, dropping back into the tan leather seats and allowing him to pull up beside a curb. “This is your stop, now get, I have like four minutes to get back to school.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll walk from ‘Trick’s.” Vic pushed open the door, stepping out of the car and peeling the passenger seat back, allowing you to climb out as Belch gave a sigh of relief.

“Thanks man, I owe you one.”

You shoved the seat back into place, hesitating at the door, remembering Ryan Burns’ invitation.

“Hey, I got us invited to Ryan Burns’ party tonight. It starts at eight, do you think you could finish practice and round all of us up to go? I’ll text Henry about it, but something tells me he was already planning on going anyhow, since Carly is Burns’ friend.”

Belch chewed on his lip in thought, squinting to think before he nodded. “Yeah. I get outta practice at five thirty, Vic gets outta dance at six. I can pick him up, shower, get ready, and be around to snag y’all at seven forty?”

You patted the hood of the car with a thankful sigh. “You’re the best, big guy. See you later. Good luck on the field.”

“Bye!” Vic called as you shut the door, Belch pulling away almost instantly, speeding off down the quiet streets in a race to make it back to school.

When you turned, your best friends arms were crossed, and his lips were pulled into the biggest shit eating grin he could muster.

“I just loved how you fell into it, the kiss, y’know? It was magic, I saw stars in your eyes-” He raced to say, breaking into a fit of laughter when you slugged his arm and gave a groan of irritation.

“Damn you! Are you talking about my kiss or writing a romance novel? Fuck off.” You huffed, throwing your backpack over your shoulders with a glare. “You knew he’d do something like that, didnt you?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Vic admitted, quieting his laughter and stepping away from you, hiking his legs to the sidewalk that would lead to his dance studio in town. “I thought about warning you too, but man, the look on your face was priceless.”

“Again. Fuck you.”

“Hey,” He waved a finger, quick to grab your attention. “I’m sure him pulling that shit out of his ass caused an argument you had to have, right? Or are you still unaware that this is a team effort, not a ME effort?”

You frowned, and scratched at your palms as your eyes went downcast. “Nah. We talked it out. I get the picture.”

“Good. Because this was going to go downhill fast if Patrick Hockstetter thought he didn’t have some ounce of power.” Vic turned, saluting you as he did so. “Good luck with that ticking time bomb, Princess. Ya Boy’s out.”

You waved him off wordlessly, parting ways and taking to the small sidewalk to the the pristine home of the Hockstetter’s, noting that Angela’s car was parked in the driveway. You made your way up the stairs and wiped your converse on the doormat for extra measure before rapping your knuckles against the door in a polite, but loud rhythm.

The answer was near immediate and you jumped back when the door flew open and Angela stood, her hair down, just as silky and glossy as her sons, dark eyes welcoming as she beamed at you.

“[First Name], nice to see you again- it’s been awhile.” She gave a musical laughter at her own little joke before settling down and clasping her hands together at her front, excited to see you again. “Patrick’s not here, I’m afraid.”

“I know, Mrs. Hockstetter. He asked me to meet him here, is it alright if I come in?” You gave a soft smile, noticing how the older woman’s eyes lingered on the shirt you wore, already knowing her answer.

“Oh, of course, of course. Come in.” She ushered you inside where you stepped to the side to allow her to close the door, lingering in the threshold of the foyer and gazing up at the legendary chandelier the house owned. Crystals shook as Angela shut her front door, and you met her eager gaze. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“Oh, no.” You held a hand up, shaking your head and taking off your converse, mindful of the shoes that sat on a shoe rack just beside the door. “I’m fine. I’m going to head to ‘Tricks room and hang out down there. I don’t want to be a bother, ma’am.”

Angela pressed a finely manicured hand to her chest, her expression softening as if hearing such polite speech made her heart ache in yearning while you set your shoes on the rack. “Sweet girl, it’s no problem. I’ll leave you alone, though. If you need me, I’ll be in my home office. Make yourself at home, you know were the fridge is.”

Your smile was blinding. “Thanks Mrs. Hockstetter.”

“Angela, sweetheart.” She insisted, and reached out to brush a hand over your shoulder as she passed you. “And please, mind your step. His room is a pigsty, I’m afraid.”

You wandered away as the bare foot paddings up wooden stairs could be heard, sweeping passed the living room and heading to the door that led down to the basement, where Patricks room awaited. You opened the door, whipping your phone out and almost blinding yourself with the flashlight app on your phone, heading down the stairs and shutting the door behind you.

It took some stumbling and a handful of curses, but you made it to your first lamp eventually, and gave a victorious cry when turning it on. Soft light caught half the room, but illuminated your path to another lamp, and that lamp to yet another. By the time the room was fully lit, you dropped down with the tangled sheets of Patrick’s bed and heaved a sigh after dumping you backpack on the ground, rolling your head to look around the room.

Dark and dreary, messy as all hell, with vinyls tossed around like confetti and loose laundry littering the floor, it was so undeniably Patrick that the room almost screamed his name. This wasn’t the first time you had been allotted entrance to his room without him present. Patrick had let you come and go as you pleased, and did the same with your own home every once in a while if he felt like it.

It was a little odd to be in his room, his comfort zone, without him however. With the tv screen dark, his spare jackets tossed over the couch or on the floor, and the sheets of his bed messed and never tucked in- you felt like at any second he could pop out of his bathroom with freshly washed hair and ask you what you wanted to do next.

You rolled in his bed, stretching across it and patting your pockets to find your phone, wondering if you should text him and let him know you were waiting on him.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t care. Just send a late text and hour later to assure you he was on his way and nothing else. You best bet was to wait for him and hope he turned up within the next few hours. After all, it was only three, and you had more than four and half hours to kill before Belch would pick you up.

Henry. You still needed to text Henry.

You shot him a quick little blurb then, but didn’t expect a response until late. None of your friends, aside from Vic who was lightning fast, were exactly speedy responders.

_**You 3:04pm;**  “Party at Burns tonight, you in? Belch is getting everyone around 8.”_

Heaving a sigh, you exited your messaging app, blackening the screen of your phone and dropping it against a pillow. You were bored. You could watch a movie, or realistically, you could nap. Neither of those options sounded particularly inviting, and while turning your head, you spied an empty hamper and chewed on the meat of your cheek.

After a seconds deliberation, you pushed yourself up from the bed and set to work, assuming that wasn’t piled on the couch (clean you guessed, from the expertly folded edges that were no doubt Angela’s handiwork) or hung was was dirty.

“Dude, you need more color.” You muttered, picking up black shirt after black shirt. You found the odd forest green flannel or navy button up, but aside from that, the hamper become a sea of black.

You filled the hamper diligently, only pausing to collect spare vinyls together with angry huffs. Mistreating them, per usual, Patrick obviously didn’t care about when and where he tossed his albums around, it it annoyed you to holy hell. Your collection was pretty sparse but growing, while he had a couple creates of his own, music taken from his parents and grown from his own interests.

You set the hamper down, taking the fat stack you had picked up and making your way to his record player, which sat dormant in the corner by where he would toss his bean bags. A big stand held the player, speakers set beside it, as well as his most used records, none of which had collected any dust, and assured you that he had listened to them recently. Underneath the thick wooden perch, you pulled out heavy crates, sifting through the albums to find empty cases that belonged to the forgotten records, envious of how many your friend had collected.

Pantera, Radiohead, Iron Maiden, Morrissey, Korn, Blink 182, Bauhaus, Sisters Of Mercy. Countless band names passed you, Patrick’s tastes variable and quite impressive, and you pulled a few out to glance over the glossy covers in admiration.

You liked music enough, it wasn’t a passion of sorts, but it killed time to talk about bands with Patrick, who was undeniably obsessed with it. He liked to zone out, accompanied only by the steady rhythms of his favorite bands and with a bong in his hands. He introduced a lot of music you enjoyed today, the alternative and dark music giver to Vic’s random hip hop choices, Henry’s classic country and classic rock, or Belch’s old school heavy metal.

He had deepened your appreciation for the finer tastes in music, The Cure, Echo and The Bunnymen, Depeche Mode and A Perfect Circle to name a few.

You peeked at the records resting atop his speakers, noting that several of them were Deftones, arguably his favorite band, and various other choices. He had a classic Sparta album sitting on his record player, and without a thought you finished up your record sorting and stood, replacing the Sparta vinyl with a Deftones one, choosing their self entitled album over the others that waited to be played.

Carefully, very carefully because god knows what Patrick would do if you broke his record player, you turned and twisted dials for the appropriate settings, watching the record spin before turning on the speakers and gently dropping the arm of the needle over it. Static crackled for a mere second, but you heard the classic strum of a guitar and smirked, happy with your choice. Moreno’s vocals rang through the basement as you set back to work, nodding your head along to the lyrics while retrieving sheets and new pillow cases from Patrick’s closet, switching them out and tossing the dirty ones uselessly into the now overflowing hamper.

You straightened up the room as you went, emptying the ashtray on the coffee table, fluffing pillows and folding blankets that were kept on the couch, humming along to the music. When you reached Patrick’s nightstand, you paused, dumping the ash tray that was there as well, but also scooping up the picture frame that sat beside his bed. You had never really noticed it before, but maybe that was the point, since it sat behind the tableside lamp and out of sight, but you admired it anyhow.

Circa junior year for sure, the photo was a simple one. Taken sometime at a party, it was a photo of you and Patrick, as well as Vic, sitting on a rail of someone’s porch smoking. Vic was turned away, talking to someone with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, while you sat with Patrick’s jacket on and cupping a hand over an unlit cigarette, a silver zippo lighter trying to catch flame in your other hand while Patrick hung back at your side with a grin.

His arm was slung around your waist, cigarette in his opposite hand as he watched you try to light the cigarette. You swallowed hard, noticing how his pale eyes were trained hard on you, the look in them playful and at ease, almost loving as they crinkled at the side, showing you that he had been laughing seconds before this was taken.

You couldn’t for the life of you remember this moment, and your heart felt heavy at the realization as you set the frame back down, positioning it closer to the front instead of where it had been hiding before hand, feeling a little dazed at the forgotten memory on display.

You turned away, and yelped when you smacked into the chest of the rooms owner.

“Jesus fucking christ!” You swore, clutching your chest out of surprise.

“Mm. Close.” Patrick stepped back, allowing you breathing room, his eyes wandering to the frame on his nightstand, then back to you. “I like what you’ve done with the place. I didn’t realize getting you as a girlfriend meant I’d get a maid too.”

Despite the sarcastic words, there was little emotion in his tone, grey-green eyes wandering about his room in scrutiny. He turned from you, walking to his record player quickly and lifting the needle away.

“Vic texted me something about a party? Henry mentioned one too.” He said flatly, and you frowned.

“Yeah, uh… Sorry, if like, cleaning wasn’t okay?” You attempted an apology, slow to realize that maybe fixing up his room could have ruined the atmosphere for him.

“It’s fine.” Patrick stated cooly, jerking out a crate of records and using nimble fingers to sift through them. “I’m not mad at you.”

He glanced your way out of the corner of his eye, and the look lingered for a mere second before his focus returned to the albums. “It wasn’t like I was going to clean, so thanks.”

Finding what he was after, he rose, using the tip of his boot to push the crate back in and flipped the album in his hands, tugging the record out in one smooth motion.

“It’s the meds.” He answered the question you never dared to ask, and you sighed quietly, understanding his clipped and robotic mood instantly. “I’ll be fine by tonight, for now, despite being impressed with your choice-”

The dark haired boy offered a considerate look, a smile playing on his lips as he switched the albums out. “Which by the way, good one.”

“Thanks. I like-”

“Minerva.” He interrupted, which was typical of his medicated lapses, impulsiveness noted. “I know, its a good song too. I think of you when I hear it.”

You were glad he didn’t catch the heat to your cheeks or flutter of your heart upon hearing his offhanded comment, and you did your best to hide it by shuffling over to the couch and moving his clean laundry to his bed, hoping he would get the memo and actually put it up later.

“But despite being impressed with you choice, I’m changing it to something else.” He continued, and when you turned back, finished with moving around his laundry, he was setting the needle back on a spinning record and you heard the plucking of guitar strings and the tapping of drum sticks, the song instantly familiar.

“A Perfect Circle?” You said, though the question in your voice could be heard, uncertain.

“The Thirteenth Step album, yeah.” He spun away from his player and approached you beside the couch, shrugging off his jacket, eyes trained on you.

A tension in the air, you cut it with your words, shifting from foot to foot, unsure. “So whats up?”

Patrick’s gaze settled on yours, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, giving a look of indifference.

“We gotta make it look like we’re a thing. The guys’ll expect you to be at my house all the time, or me to be at yours. Get used to hanging out on the daily, Princess.” He tossed his jacket across the back of the couch, dropping down on the cushions with a deep sigh.

“Oh.” Was all you said, though a part of you nagged at yourself conscious that he was only telling the half truth, but you ignored the warning bells, sitting beside him on the couch and sinking in just right.

Patrick closed his eyes, propping his boots over the coffee table and throwing his arms over the back of his couch, clearly attempting to relax.

From the short tone he had been using since arriving, his more impulsive actions and the way he seemed to be grabbing for a moment of contemptment, you could guess he had only recently taken his meds- sometime around lunch or a little after if you wanted to accurately pinpoint the timing. His medication, when he actually chose to use it, made him ill tempered, and jittery, until it wound down and he would feel pathetically lethargic. You saw what he was supposed to take, his dosage, and argued it was too much, but Patrick would rather flush the pills down his toilet and pretend he took the proper amount than get into another spat with his mother over medication.

He was already fighting her on therapy, which was once weekly, and now happened to be biweekly, thanks to a fit he threw in junior year. Though he claimed he didn’t need it, you were thankful Angela at least cared enough about her son to attempt to get him help. There were times when he was truly.. Off, and despite how much you cared about him, it was unnerving to say the least if you caught him on his bad days, days when you were not sure if Patrick really understood right from wrong.

“Want some water?” You murmured, moving to push hair behind his ear. He exhaled slowly through his nose, cracking open an eye to peer at you lazily.

“Nah,” He opened both eyes, rolling his neck and cracking it with satisfying popping noises, tugging his jacket back into his lap and digging into the pockets. He pulled out a zippo lighter and a tightly wound joint, tossing you his pack of cigarettes, knowing you wouldn’t be taking hits until later that night, if at all. “This is what I need.”

You rolled your eyes, opening the pack of cigarettes offered when you realized just how much you needed the nicotine. Patrick stuffed the joint between his lips, and held up his lighter, catching your eyes with a smirk. Quick as a whip and with expert skill, he used his thin and ringed fingers to flip the lighter between the digits of his hand, the lighter twisting and dancing between the fingers as he rolled and flipped it around.

The flame, bright and dangerous, flickered steadily as he did his trick, and you scoffed when the zippo itself when out, and the fire twitched to life on the tip of his finger before he blew it out.

“You’re gonna burn your fucking nails off doing that shit.” You nagged, earning a chuckle from the boy at your side.

“Hey, everyone loves a lighter trick.” Patrick shrugged, catching his zippo back to life and holding it to the tip of his joint, sucking on the end until the paper caught flame and died to a dark ember.

You shook your head, sticking the clove flavored cigarette between your lips and leaning forward, wordlessly asking for a light. He granted it, clipping his zippo closed and touching the end of his reefer cigarette while bent forward to the end of yours, the two of you easily getting it to light with no problem. You parted from him, blowing smoke from your nose while he kept the hit he gained from the cigarette kiss for a moment longer, letting it go all too slowly.

The music carried through the room with its steady beat, and you relaxed against the cushions, taking well deserved drags of your cigarette and passing the smoke with ease.

“What business did you have to attend to today, ‘Trick?” You asked, twisting around to face him fully and fold your legs underneath you.

“Normal shit. Pram and Harris wanted some weed. Bumped into Henry on my way back home, he was carting off a couple bags of party shit to Burns’ with Henderson.” Patrick breathed tendrils of smoke from his lips as he spoke, the smell musky and heavy in comparison to the spicy and sweet smell of your cigarette.

“So then I assume we are indeed going to Burns’ party?” You reached over, plucking the joint out from between Patricks fingers. When he shot you a barely there annoyed glance, you leaned over to stamp it out lightly, careful not to break it. “You need to slow down. Taking five hits is enough for now.”

“I know my limits, Princess.” He argued passively, but made no move to retrieve his dead joint, only to roll his eyes. “And yeah. Looks like we’re heading to the party. Henry said it starts at eight-”

“Already got Reggie and Vic in on it.” You waved his explanation away. “Reggie is picking us up around seven forty.”

“You work fast.”

You gave a shrug. “Seems like a good place to show each other off at. No one really knows we’re ‘dating’ aside from the guys.”

“Ah,” A flannel clad arm reached out, taking the clove cigarette from your fingers before Patrick brought the filter to his lips. “There you go, plotting again.”

“Well that’s the point of this,” He watched you prod your cheek with your tongue, letting him steal drags off your cigarette. “Us hanging out right now, and us going to the party. We want people to think we’re together, dumbass.”

Patrick’s gaze, amused, traced the shape of your face. “It’s going to take more than a few public appearances for people to think we’re an item sweetheart.”

“I’m wearing your shirt, does that count?” You tugged at the hem of the yellow fabric, smiling a little despite the knowing smirk that graced Patrick’s lips.

He bent over, tapping out the butt of your cigarette into his glass ashtray before settling back and keeping his smirk, which grew in between the silence. A Perfect Circle continued to play in the background, a perfect calm before the storm as the record spun and the slow beats crackled through heavily used speakers.

Finally, he raised a hand to his chin, scratching a ringed finger against it. “So I’m I gonna have to make it weird? Because I’ll make it weird, Princess.”

You shifted on the couch, giving a sigh.

“What? What are you talking about?” You said with a heavy tone, though you were already gathering an idea as to what he could be alluding to.

“Hickeys. You’re long over due, and if we’re going to a party, I think it would be a good statement gesture, you feel me?” His eyes danced, and you caught yourself chewing hard on your lip, releasing it only to speak.

“I think showing up to the party together will be enough-”

He interrupted you before you could come up with a good excuse, a slender hand reaching out to wrap across your wrist and tug you forward. “It’s not up for discussion.”

You gave a noise of irritation, crawling forward across the couch and making a point to stop before you were in his lap. Patrick had been diligently arguing the physical evidence side of the ‘relationship’ since he agreed to the madness, and though his argument was consistently valid, you still felt uneasy to drop in his arms and let it happen. He was gunning alongside the venture with no romantic interest, just along for the ride in hopes Henry would leave Carly in the dust, while you, despite having the same goal, had some…Romantic tension to bring to the table.

It wasn’t as if you had been dreaming of a moment alone with Patrick where he would sweep you off your feet and ravish you, no, you were still getting used to the idea of even fake dating Patrick, let alone sucking face with the boy in his bedroom.

It was just that you werent ready to make that jump so fast. You were still reeling from the recent realization you had feelings for him, and the thought of letting him suck and bite your neck on day one of dating just didn’t sit right with you.

So close to him, just inches away from slightly chapped but ludicrously perfect looking lips and eyes that burned despite their pale color, made those feelings of hesitation return ten fold.

He was Patrick Hockstetter, your fake boyfriend, but also - arguably the most important factor- your best friend. Were you really going to risk muddling that friendship with your desire to come out on top in the Bowers Gang?

“Why so serious. It’s just business, [First Name].” He drawled, and sought your gaze with a crooked smile. “Nervous you’ll like it?”

“I’m going to hit you, Hockstetter.” You warned without much enthusiasm, a little defeated. He was right. It was business, and in the long run, people would be less likely to believe things were serious between you two if you dared to show up to the party without some remnants of a makeout session.

He had the decency to give a little huff, easing you over. “I’ll make it quick. Just fuckin’ relax, Princess.”

At a loss of how you could argue further, or at least buy more time, you followed his pull. The situation was awkward to say the least, climbing into his lap and settling on his thighs while dropping your legs on either side of him. It was too close, to intimate, and despite the fact you had been in a decently similar position the night before when you dropped a knee between his thighs, this was just so much worse.

Patrick dropped his grip from your wrist, settling his hands to ghost against your hips, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. Your nails picked absently at the thighs of your jeans, and you bit the inside of your cheek, waiting. That stare of his lowered from your steely but uncertain gaze to the side of your neck, a hand reaching up to toss loose strands from the curve of it, the fingers darting back against the top of your shoulder and length of your arm before settling back on your hip as he finally took the chance to bend forward.

You flinched when the wetness of his tongue drew a long stripe against the flesh of your throat. Ther act itself sent heat to your cheeks, and you snapped your eyes closed, attempting to shut him out as well. You felt him exhale softly against your skin, warm breath reaching the dampness before he pressed a kiss against your neck. Fleeting and too sweet, he corrected the action with a sharp rake of his teeth, your neck on fire as he applied a thick sweep of his tongue and sucked hard.

“Ow-” You murmured with a wince, the bite forcing you to awkwardly find purchases for your hands on his body. With one hand gripping his shoulder, your arm wrapped underneath his arm to keep him in place, and the other hand quickly threading into his messy locks, one would have assumed to liked what he’d done.

One wouldn’t be too far off from that assumption.

Your comment only spurred him on, the grip on your hips tightening as Patrick began to pepper sloppy kisses down the length of your neck. Bruising bites fought the fervent kisses, the heat built between them only cooled when he chose to give you mercy, blowing his breath over your aching neck to give you time to recover before the attacks began again.

He moved his lips expertly to obvious spots, the crook of your neck, just under the edge of your jaw and to the barest part of your neck. All was well, aside from the occasional tug at his hair when he’d get too into the moment and suck a bit too hard for your liking, he was doing an exceptional job. You were practically melting in his arms, and through the haze of the high his affections gave, you noticed how his hands wandered from your hips to the small of your back or across your waist. His nails drug along the fabric of your shirt and left electric sensations, ones that you noticed all to well when he found a sensitive spot of your just under your ear.

The moan you gave was mortifying when he made the mistake of gnawing against the flesh there, the breath catching in your throat when he pressed you flush against him, refusing to allow you to pull away. You gasped and immediately fought against him, though the movements were weak and pitiful, the strength in your fight sapped away with every merciless suck of his lips and kiss he applied.

“Patrick-” You battled against his insistent hold, dizzy from the vibrant pleasure that shot through you at the act. “‘Trick.”

Patrick pulled away just enough to give you the room to breathe, and through the fade you recognized the way his eyes were heavily lidded, pupils blown and breathing rhythmatic but heavy. You felt your nostrils flare, irritated he had acted so rudely, and chose to drag your nails across his scalp in retaliation, the sensation doing the exact opposite of what you were hoping to achieve, because instead of annoying him and giving a final warning, the gesture earned you a strangled groan of appreciation.

You tensed in time with him, both of you shock still and wide eyed. The dark haired boy was the first to snap out of the trance, eyes hard and jaw tense.

“That’s enough.” Patrick said with bated breath, drawing his hold from you and dropping back against the cushions of the couch, dismissing you. You hurried to leave his lap, seemingly throwing yourself onto the cushion beside him and trying to look anywhere but him.

Your neck felt raw and damp, throbbing painfully yet sinfully well, the marks unseen to you for now, but feeling impressively painted across the skin. You gingerly reached up to touch them, unaware of what would be there when you looked into the mirror later.

“…Hair pulling kink. Noted.” You finally said to the quiet, a little amused despite the tension in the air.

“Shut up.” He snapped, but when you turned to glance at him, just to make sure he wasn’t too upset, you caught the tail end of an almost proud smirk. “At least I didnt cream my pants over a hickey, Sweetheart.”

“I did not.” You insisted with a horrified scoff.

“Whatever you say.” Patrick shrugged, pushing himself up from the couch and pausing as he stood to stare down at you. His lips pulled into a trademark grin, and he sucked on his teeth. “No one’s gonna question who you belong to now, Princess. You’re welcome.”

You touched your neck again with gentle brushes of your fingertips. “Isn’t that the point?”

“It was, and now I hope you’ll stop fighting me on the excellent points I make. May this be the first of many genius examples I pull out of my ass on this venture.” He boasted, rounding the couch and leaving you to sit alone, heading towards his bathroom with a swagger in his step. “I’m gonna wash up for the party. Put on a movie or something.”

He shut the door without a proper farewell, and you remained on the couch, too lost in the heated reminiscing of the wandering touches and heavy kisses Patrick had applied to your body just moments before. You had done it. You had gotten hickeys from Patrick Hockstetter and survived. You were marked as his, and no one could say otherwise.

You hated how thrilled you felt, and something told you that the self loathing was only going to intensify as you continued this boyfriend and girlfriend charade. Sooner or later, especially if you melted like you had tonight, Patrick was sure to catch on to how you really felt for him and then it was over. The relationship. The plan. The friendship.

Patrick came out of his bathroom a good twenty minutes later, face washed and hair styled appropriately into his normal grungey fashion. The record player was off, his tv playing some classic horror flick you had picked out from the shelves to fill the time.

He didn’t comment on the lost look in your eyes, and you didn’t notice the forlorn glances he shot the expanse of your neck, or how he bit his lip when you absently brushed fingers across the love bites- unaware of how his eyes smoldered and sought only you, never even sparing a look to the television that filled the room with white noise.

It seemed everyone had something to hide, and time would only tell what was left unsaid in the basement of Patrick Hockstetter’s home that late spring afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning; Potentially Triggering Content Ahead

Blossoms of red and pink met your gaze once you finally faced the mirror, and the pure rush of awe you felt would have been shameful if adrenaline still hadn't been coursing through your veins like wildfire. Beyond the door of Patrick’s ensuite bathroom, you heard the soft hum of his television, but the muffled sounds were far from your thoughts, only the paintings of his previous passions keeping your attention. Tentative fingertips traced their outlines, and you caught yourself nibbling at the edge of your bottom lip, their soreness a buzzing reminder and the memories still fresh and exhilarating.

 _Fuck._ You were going to burst at the seams if you kept your focus on them, and you knew it.

There was a certain jittery push that crept across the field of your mind, the wandering thoughts you had been cultivating since allowing Patrick Hockstetter’s mouth press and suck at your neck slowly seeping to the surface.

This god damn charade, the game you were favoring while sneaking around with Patrick (and Vic, technically) wasn’t going to go smoothly if you fucked it up with your pesky… Feelings. Sure, you could hide your crush for the dark haired, brooding asshole until the end of this nonsense if you tried, but if there were going to be repeat sessions of what had happened earlier, you were sure a nice little ‘ _fuck me_ ’ might escape your lips. Afterall, you moaned. He had moaned. The tingly gross sensation of arousal had found its way into what he and you agreed was business, and that wasn’t the best news.

You stared through the silver of the glass, locking eyes with yourself and dropping the hand that touched your best friends handiwork, steadying the grip against the granite of the sink and giving yourself a hollow stare.

“Don’t fuck this up.” You warned under your breath, eyes flickering to the marks you wished you could dwell on before resuming their harrowing position in the mirror.

Your silence spoke volumes, little whispers, nagging from your conscious, picked at your thoughts easily, but you shrugged them off and dropped the foreboding gaze you held, turning the tap on with a harsh jerk of your wrist. Cool water pooled in your palms once you held them over the sink, and the icy chill sent an invigorating surge through your otherwise nervous self, and so you continued to smack handfuls of water against your flushed and feverish cheeks.

You groped blindly for a drawer, the muscel memory alone of having spent sleepless nights over at Patrick’s home leading you to a heavy knob that pulled out with ease. Soft cotton met your touch and you snagged a clean hand towel from the drawer, patting your face dry and blinking at your reflection once you had cleared your face of the water.

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket idly, a text awaiting your answer. Patting the back pocket and plucking your smartphone from your jeans, you absently folded the towel on the counter, unlocking the screen and peering down at the text you had received.

 

 **Vicky Boi Criss** **_6:17pm;_ ** _“Omw. 15 tops.”_

 

A fervent jerk of your chin and you focused on your face, remembering the light touch of makeup you had chosen to worn for the day. Your makeup, or really the bare minimum you had put on that morning, had mostly stayed on after your quick splash. Eyebrows, fine. Mascara, a little thin, but otherwise useless to reapply. Your eyeshadow was suffering some, but it was a high school party you were crashing for fucks sake, it wasn't like every single student at Derry High would be leaning in close enough to tell whether or not you had religiously applied a smooth naked eye.

Some eyeliner smudged around the edges of your eye would do just fine to make a nice smokey eye, and you were sure there was some form of lip application, either lipstick or gloss, in your backpack to finish the look anyhow.

You sent a quick reply to Vic, assuring him you would be ready, and finally stepped out of the restroom, the couch deserted and left to tend to your backpack alone.

“Ready?”

Spooked to hell, you caught the gasp in your throat before it escaped, but the flinch remained. Patrick loomed beside his bed, emptying the pockets of his studded and patch ridden jacket across the clean comforter you had stretched over the bed earlier.

“Give a bitch a warning, Pat. Damn.” You coughed over the sharp inhale you had taken from the withheld gasp, stepping over to the couch and rifling through your backpack. Unzipping and digging around in search of lipstick or whatever else your bag held that was of the makeup variety, you shot him a curious look as the dark haired punk gave the smallest chuckle. “Looking for something?”

“Nah.” He said simply, tugging the leather off his shoulders and rounding the edge of his bed to cross the room and reach the couch. “Just making sure you have pocket room.”

You frowned, elbow deep in your dark hole of a school bag and confused. It was only when the jacket was offered over the back of the couch that you put two and two together. “Wait, what? What are you gonna wear?”

He nudged the jacket closer, dragging it over the top of your bag as he ushered it forward. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You love that thing more than life itself dude, are you sure you want it in my care all night?” A humble and joking tone in your voice was evident, but the underlying truth was there as well. Patrick only handed that jacket over to you at parties when he was past the point of responsibility to keep it unstained or off to fuck some poor son of a bitch and didn’t want the hassle of accidentally forgetting it. He had worn it since sophomore year and barely taken it off or was seen without it unless is was a scorching day in the summer or he was sound asleep. It was practically the man's armour against the world, and he valued it deeply.

“Take it before I change my mind, Princess.” Patrick’s lip quirked upwards in the slightest smile, amusement fresh behind his dazzling eyes. “You rent it at parties when I don’t wanna deal with it anyhow. Why not show up in it for once?”

You held a pause with him, looking from the offered article of clothing to the genuine expression behind his otherwise cocky mask. A sigh left your lips and you took it, giving him a grateful smile, knowing the weight behind the sentiment.

“Thanks. I bet I’ll look like the splitting image of you from sophomore year now.” A cheeky smile creeped across your face, eyebrows wagging as you finally pulled your arm from the crevices of your backpack and rolled the tubes of liquid lipstick and eyeliner between your fingers. “But I guess to really capture that pure edgy boy essance, I’d need some heavy eyeliner and a faded undercut, huh?”

Patrick sucked his teeth, whirling away from you as he shrugged your jab off. “I was a fucking stud, and you know it.”

“Is that why you tried to force me to delete almost every single photo I had of you with that hairstyle?” You called over your shoulder, hurrying to the bathroom, knowing a time crunch was set upon you for the evening.

There was the smallest laugh as he pushed hangers in his closet aside to find a new jacket for the evening, his main slice snug under your arm as you closed the bathroom door behind you. A beat of silence, and you heard him snap his closet door shut, the sound a little too rushed.

“Wait- the fuck do you mean _almost_ every single photo?”

 

The reverberating sting of dance music hung thick in the air, tangling with the scent of musky weed, sweat drenched teenagers, sweet perfumes and vodka slicked skin. You shoveled another free sweet offered from countless snack bowls in your mouth, tossing your head back and cheering alongside Vic as the beat rose to fever pitch, swinging your hips in time with the beat and swaying with your best friend to the rhythm of the music.

Ryan Burns had thrown a true-to-the-word rager.

It was positively alive with the energy running through the single story ranch house, the backyard stained with teenage regret and keg stands, the living room turned into a stuffy but wild dance floor that you hadn’t hesitated to hit with Vic, the house’s dining room converted into a beer pong den where you knew you could steal away to and find the rest of your crew.

The music was loud, so loud that a headache would be inevitable once you crashed at home, but in the moment, it took everything and anything in you to contain your emotions with barely there restraint. All that anger from the past weeks went into the hard throws of your head, the fist pumping along to the heavy beats, and the keening of your neck along to strained lyrics. Dancing had always been an outlet for you, and Vic was just as into the music as you were, jutting skillful arms out and stealing the show as he swam through the crowd and drew the hungry eyes of onlookers while whipping out expert moves and on point sets that you just knew he had hoped to show off on of these days.

Your peers whooped and hollered, shouting in disbelief as he rocked his hips and spun his body, contorting himself into a handsome visage while completely letting the music over take him, his on the fly dancing drawing looks of awe from the crowd with ease. His eyes glittered, thrilled to have all the focus on him and striking envy or pure unbridled lust out of anyone who dared to lock gazes with him, the smugness wafting off in waves, but you just grinned and attempted to follow along, unsteady and not at perfect as him, but good enough to keep your own.

M.I.A., Post Malone, Lil Peep, Dj Khaled, Drake, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, and even Halsey.

You danced to it all, and finally found yourself out of breath, waving the crowd off and parting from the dance floor, glistening with sweat and bearing a flushed smile, exhilarated and ready to quench your thirst the dancing had brought.

Vic caught up with you and steered you towards the dining room, which was fine enough, at least you knew there would be something to drink- even if it was crappy beer.

“Nice moves, too bad you can’t keep up with the _master_ , Princess.”

You gave him a playful shove, the two of you stumbling with weak knees into the dining room, passing tipsy teens and arriving to a chorus of cheers.

Henry was the first of the gang you saw, bent at an odd angle with a baby blue eye shut tight as he whipped his arm back, a white ping pong ball pinched tight between his fingertips while he stood at one end of a massive dining table. Belch hovered at his side, cheeks flushed from alcohol and eyes bright. The jock loved a good game of beer pong, which only made the less than enthused form of Patrick who flanked Henry on his opposite side even more so a sight to see.

For once, the edgiest student of Derry High seemed a little normal, his leather jacket stuck to you like a second skin as he wore a bleached and worn out denim jacket in its stead. Patches applied ages ago, stolen out of bargain bins at the thrift shops in town or bought out of pocket from the same shops Patrick sought his silver studs to decorate his leather jacket for, covered the fabric and painted it a mess of black, red, and white. His basic color scheme never seemed to change, even if he donned a separate jacket for the evening, you mused.

Across the dining table stood a drunken shell of Dylan Pram, thankfully accompanied by Ryan and his right hand man, Donnie. Their cups were all either nearly empty or simply flipped upside down, showing the Bowers Gang had once again wiped the game clean with them- as they always did.

Only idiots would seek your boys out for a chance to win a game of the legendary beer pong, their tolerance for cheap beer stronger than gods by all accounts. You had lost count of the amount of times each and every one of your friends had drank themselves under the table, only to find they had cleared out any stuff you held or swept the underside of their parents alcohol stash clean. A couple bud lights at a party were nothing to your guys, and the little glimmer of pride you had for them over that fact was twisted, sure, but it was there nonetheless.

You, however, weren’t anywhere near their tolerance level. A beer here, a solo cup full of chaser with a splash of liquor there, that was all you needed to feel a buzz. Too many memories of Henry tugging your hair back as Patrick ran the tap in his bathroom to drown out the sound of your vomiting before  any of you had even hit seventeen had soured your love for alcohol to really chase a high past a nice warmth in your stomach.

“[First Name]!” Ryan greeted you with a dazzling smile, not even bothered when Henry landed a smooth shot into a solo cup and caused a break of valiant hollering and cheers to sound from the bowers gang side of the room, where bodies hung by the walls and watched with intensity rivaling a flock of sports fans.

Still a little breathless, you nodded in his direction, Vic breaking from your side to stride right over to the beer pong keg, it’s spigot pouring a stream of amber liquid into the single empty cup that he snagged from the table top of the makeshift beer pong game.

The bronze skinned Ryan snatched up the cup Henry had scored a point with, tossing the ball back at him with pleasant banter that you ignored, finding you had caught the eyes of your ‘boyfriend’.

Patrick peeled himself from Henry’s side, earning a bit of a indignant look, but otherwise nothing was left phased when he crossed your path and greeted you with a nod of his head.

“You look sweaty and fuckin’ gross.” There was a smile in his voice, and it peeked out when you smacked his arm. “Better not be stinking up my jacket, or you’ll be sorry Babe.”

“Fuck off. I wore deodorant- but it reeked of patchouli and cigs in the first place anyway.” You threw back, fanning out the edges of the jacket to allow air to flow under the warm leather nonetheless. The sudden breeze was pleasant, but your mouth still yearned for something to drown the thirst stuck in your throat. “I’m gonna get a drink from the kitchen, plant our favorite idiot somewhere safe if you could.”

You brushed past him, his eyes following you as you went, the music from the living room almost masking your request.

“What's the magic word?!” Patrick yelled after you, earning him a snort he never heard while you turned out the doorway.

“PLEASE!” You hollered, deciding that it didn’t exactly matter if he heard or not, knowing Patrick was also always on watch with Vic when you weren’t.

Maneuvering through a hoard of high schoolers, all various ages from seniors in their prime to freshmen who snuck in after the older teens were too fucked up to care, you slunk through the maze of halls that resided in Ryan’s house, the line for the two front bathrooms cluttered and heavy; though you noticed that the hall that led to the farthest and smallest bathroom in the house was nearly deserted aside from a few straggling peers who seemed too out of it to notice much of what went on around them. Noted for later, you trudged through the traffic, stepping into Ryan’s kitchen and spotting the buffet of liquor and spirits littered across gleaming countertops.

A few people hung against the counters and talked amongst themselves, all in varying degrees of dark and demented looking clothing. Their faces were unknown to you, a mirage of shaggy black hair and glittering piercings that looked self pierced from the odd angles and uncentered settings they all had. Rings or studs and thin little hoops collected at their ears and despite the quick rake of their eyes on you when you entered the kitchen, you felt some sort of connection to them.

Just some edgy white kids crashing a jocks party, you mused, and in a way, you could relate. Sure, Ryan had graciously invited you, but even as you and the boys had strolled into the party with a case of beer under Belchs arm and were met with a cheer from your peers, you felt a bit out of place.

The bowers gang were trouble makers. Brawls had been thrown over spilled drinks or the simplest requests to quit hogging all the hot girls at the party. Despite being welcomed, there was still a stigma attached to your back, and it didn’t take a genius to understand that while you were allowed to be at the party, not everyone wanted to get all chummy with the wild kids of Derry.

A boy with spiked up black hair nodded at you, the hand that held his beer snapping two fingers in a silent salute when you arrived, the rest of his pals exchanging quick glances before doing similar acts of muted greeting. You snagged a cup from the countless stacks situated around the room, dropping it on the center kitchen island as you set off in search of alcohol.

“Hey, [First Name]!” One girl welcomed you, and it took a second glance to glaze over her run of the mill face and place a name with her warmth.  Her big bright eyes were familiar and brought the smallest glimpse of a name to your mind, but otherwise, she was just as much as a nobody as the four others who stood at her sides.

Katy? Cathy? Katy-Cathy Weaver something or whatever. You weren’t entirely sure of who she was, but that wasn’t exactly unexpected on your part. Maybe you had class with her, or maybe she knew you vicariously through Vic or one of the other boys, point was; she was a mystery, and you were stuck with the sudden awkwardness that came with blanking on social norms.

“Uh, hi.” You stretched a smile you hoped wasn't too strained across your painted lips, rounding her and the others she clung to, desperate now to pour yourself a splash of liquor and chaser and return to the safety blanket that was Patrick and Vic.

There were seemingly hundreds of bottles strung about. Eighty proof vodka that would knock the air out of your lungs sat beside a plastic litre of Costco tequila that tasted more like rusted metal than the smooth agave flavor it claimed to have. Rum was your poison of choice, thanks to it being one of the easiest bottles to steal out of your mothers drinking cabinet without much noticeability from your parents. They enjoyed a glass often enough that neither of your folks batted an eye at its departure, and would be promptly stocked later that following week without question.

You searched the labels of the liquors, unaware of the girl, Katy, Cathy, or whomever, talked after you, thinking she held your undivided attention. It wasn’t until you snagged a neck of a white rum bottle you heard her call out to you.

“Right?”

You blinked, snapped back into reality, and turned. “Huh?”

Big blue eyes dimmed a bit, her friends sharing knowing looks, a few shifting uncomfortably.

God. What had you missed?

“I said… Uh,” She tried for a more sincere smile, since her original one had dropped. “I was just saying, that like, it must be awesome to finally date Pat, right? I heard you guys finally got together and stuff.”

“Oh,” You unscrewed the lid of your chosen alcohol off, tipping it ever so slightly that it drained a small amount in to your cup. You chose to ignore the fact she used such a familiar name for Patrick, figuring she was trying to level with you in a friendly way. “Yeah. It was kinda a spur of the moment thing. Just happened or whatever.”

“You guys are hot gossip right now, the talk of the party.”

She carried on, though you didn’t understand the hype. Weren’t there other things to talk about? Gretta’s latest bullshit? Ryan’s party that they were literally all attending? Graduation? Prom?

Scanning the countertops, you felt at a loss when there seemed to be no juice in sight. Just soda and a fuck ton of crappy and sugar packed mixers. Vaguely aware of the chatter that followed you to the fridge, you barely paid Katy/Cathy mind as you opened it, peering inside in search of orange juice or something similar.

A sliding glass door that led outside to the back yard swung open with a smooth whoosh of wind, the chill from outside barely felt through your intense fridge searching and the armor of Patrick’s jacket. It was when it closed and you spotted a jug of fruit punch hidden behind the milk that you froze at a greeting that wasn’t directed towards you.

“Grant, what’s up?” The girl’s gaggle of friends sang their various greetings, giving you a moment to pray to any deity that hailed high above that Grant was not who you expected him to be. Your suspicions were proven correct once you shut the door to the fridge, a hot topic reject standing idly by the door and reeking of fresh cigarette smoke.

“Hey guys.” Grant spoke with a hoarse voice, the smokers lung choking his airy tone. “Thought you all bailed already.”

His left side cheek was a blush of yellow and pale brown from a healing bruise, nose a little more bent than when you saw him last, and eyes caked with liner so heavy you barely made out the crusted up cut just below one of his eyebrows.

He turned his head, attention leaving the folks who knew him to rest on you, to which you dropped his gaze instantly and set to pouring an obscene amount of fruit punch into your cup in a sloppy and rushed fashion, a few drops dribbling along the counter before you snapped the lid back on and tossed it into the fridge once more.

“[First name],” Katy/Cathy spoke up, and you swore that if it weren't for the other onlookers, you would have shot her a glare. You had been so careful a few weeks back, never allowing your real name to fall into the creeps hands, and now he had it, thanks to the slip of this random girl’s tongue. “Do you know Grant?”

Swallowing thickly, you stood before the open fridge, pretending to be in search for other condiments for your drink. A burn singed your back, stares collected from all the prying eyes of the kitchen. A shuffling noise was offhandedly heard and you woke back to attention, clearing your throat.

“No.”

It was a weak claim, and when you shut the door to come back empty handed, you found yourself faced with strangers and one creep in particular you’d rather not be at the mercy of. Your eyes found Katy, her name was Katy, you were sure of it now. Big blue eyes and a sweet smile, her sunny disposition was a bit displaced in the moment since your mind was screaming to run away and you were obviously uncomfortable, but it was recognized after all.

Katy Weaver. She had been a sophmore and in the same grade as you when she left Derry High. Part of you recalled her having a little crush on Belch in freshman year, other parts of you remembered her drastic change from cookie cutter small town girl to a run of the mill school outcast back in middle school. She stuck around the edges of the bowers gang as well as any outsider could before she moved to Bangor high in sophmore year, taking her friendly smile and collection of MCR albums with her.

Now, by the looks of the angel bite studs resting on the edge her lips and messy waves of inky box dyed hair, she had found her calling with Bangor High’s rejects. Good for her, she had been a sweet girl back in the day, and considering how warm she had been with her welcome, she was still just as much of a good kid as before as she had once been.

Your pocket vibrated, giving you a gracious excuse to tear your eyes away from all those who bore down on you. Katy bid you a polite farewell, walking hand and hand with the boy who had spiked hair and heavy eyeliner, the two of them sparring you a last curious glance before wandering off- their friends peeling themselves from the counters to slowly follow as you answered your text from Vic.

 

**Vicky Boi Criss** _**8:58pm;** “Bring me tequila because you love me.”_

 

**You** _**8:58pm;** “Margarita or just a shot?”_

 

You heaved a sigh, keeping the phone in hand as you slipped past the last standing teen in the kitchen, your skin crawling as Grant kept a hard stare on your back while you search for tequila that wasn’t some crappy costco excuse for liquor. Your phone buzzed again, this time allowing you to plainly see the texts that arrived, fingers wrapping around the slim neck of a liquor bottle just seconds later, your streaky nail polish catching the light.

 

**Vicky Boi Criss** _**8:59pm;** “Marg on the rocks. Lots of salt. Lots of tequila.”_

 

**Vicky Boi Criss** _**8:59pm;** “Trick wants you to hurry up. He apparently hates babysitting me.”_

 

“You know, it's awfully rude to ignore someone.” Grant spoke up, warranting a cautious look over your shoulder as you saw him lean against the kitchen island that held your drink. Now, by all rights, he was unavoidable.

Putting on a brave front, you allowed a scoff, snatching another plastic cup from the various stacks, wetting the rim and salting it in a plate filled with kosher salt that had been left out for the very reason you used it for, tossing in a nice glug of tequila as Vic had requested afterwards. Mixing drinks had never been your speciality, but after watching your boys attempt to drown their sorrows with alcohol over the years, you had at least gained some sense of how they preferred their drinks. Vic liked sour chasers and tart liquor.

Margaritas on the rocks were favored, among lemon drops or anything resembling jungle juice. Henry preferred straight whiskey or beer, Belch was happy to accept most anything but fruity mixed drinks (they were always too strong, he claimed), and Patrick was always a surprise. One night, he would sip at a glass of spiked punch, another night he’d be chugging vodka from a water bottle like he was dying of thirst.

You swirled the tequila in Vic’s cup, searching for the margarita mix you had seen earlier and tossing some in once you found that, all while ignoring the presence of Grant. His eyes burned, scorching your shields as you stepped around the counter in attempt to avoid him, now in search of ice. He twisted to keep pace with your actions, mouth set in a strict line.

“You don't have to be a bitch, _[First name]_.” Came his taunt, your name falling out of his mouth with a gross amount of consideration, as if he was savouring it on his tongue. Huskily, he continued, his words barely drowned out from your feverish attempts at shaking ice out of the freezer trays and into Vic’s cup. “You could at least say hi.”

You whirled back to face him, eyes hard. “Hi, Grant.”

His eyes softened just a tad and he caught a hand against his chest. “She remembers me, I think I’m in love.”

“Let me rephrase. Fuck off, Creep” You snapped, barreling your shoulder into his once you passed his, snatching up your drink,  glowering over your shoulder once given the chance to edge towards the exit with both drinks in hand. “And don’t make a repeat of last time. My boys went easy back then, they won’t a second time around. Thats a fucking promise.”

Grant sized you up, you, this girl barely past the edge of seventeen and running away with her drinks, back to her safety net and far away from his hungry gaze, and let the slightest of smirks befall his pierced lips. “We’ll see about that, babe.”

“Your funeral, fucker.” You shot back, braver thanks to the distance put between the two of you, ducking out of the kitchen and once again stuck to weed through your peers in search of your friends. The masses of sweaty and alcohol reeking teens was well preferred over Grant, and you made your way through the maze of the house, past the living room slash dance floor, past the beer pong room, all the way back towards the front of the house where Ryan’s den was.

You were right to assume Vic would be there, as well as the denim clad Patrick, both of which lounged on one of the only open couches the room held. It was much quieter inside the den, the living rooms  music left halls away and allowing the den to be a place of casual conversation and underage drinking. Some teens staggered, but most were holding their liquor quite well, leaning against walls or standing around, speaking amongst themselves and barely paying you mind as you rounded them all and dropped between the boys on the couch.

“Margarita, extra tequila. Lots of salt.” You announced with a lick of the cups salted rim and quick sip of the alcohol, smacking your lips together with a scrunch of your nose before handing the blond his drink and smothering the unfavorable taste in your mouth with a couple glugs of your spiked punch.

“Thanks for licking all the salt off the rim,” Vic said with a roll of his eyes, still downing his drink despite his complaint. “And thanks for making Passive Aggressive Patty my babysitter.”

Patrick hummed at your side, pausing in the Instagram scrolling he had committed himself to before your arrival to raise his head and grace your best friend with a hollow glare. “If you don't like how I handle you, maybe try not being a thirsty slut when I’m your keeper, Vic. I'm not going to deal with you flirting when I’d have to be the one to drag your drunk ass into Amy later with your mouth reeking of pussy.”

“Oh, he’s catty.” You mimicked his tone from the night before, not hiding the little laugh that bubbled from your throat at the side eye he gave you from your comment. “Don't you know? First rule of being the Party Bitch. You have to let Vic do whatever he wants, or he’s a whiny chode the entire evening.”

“Whiney bitch, thank you.” Vic corrected, jutting his chin to the dark haired boy at your side. “He’s the whiney chode. ‘ _Where’s [First name]_ ?’ ‘ _Why the fuck did I agree to watch you_ ?’ ‘ _You’re such a brat, Vic. Sit down and stop fucking around._ ’. He whines more than Carly does on car rides.”

You hid your smile behind the rim of your cup, drinking heavily and finally allowing your dry throat to heal from the madness of the night, reveling in the glow of the moment while chasing down that nasty salty flavor from your defiant swig of Vic’s margarita.

Three friends, at a sweet party, talking shit and having a good time. It had been so long since you had been at a party and spent time with someone other than just Vic (usually drunk as a skunk and bordering alcohol poisoning by the time you haul him into Amy), that you wanted to savor the evening all together- Grabby Grant’s guest appearance aside.

You knew what would have made it even better. The presence of Henry and Belch, those other loose marbles of your gang. Together, the five of you could commit this night to memory, but separate, it would just be a haze for nearly half of you down the road.

You swirled the contents of your solo cup, suddenly a but somber and lost in thought. Memories were needed now more than ever. The future loomed so close ahead of the five of you. Graduation. College. Adulthood. There was no saying what would happen once you all went your separate ways- a reality that was as hard to swallow as the watered down crap Derry teens considered ‘good’ beer.

Vic was going to college. One way or another, you knew he would be jetting off to some other state and dropping into a good school to score top of the line grades and break out into whatever chosen trade he went with. Acting? Fashion design? Screenplay author? He could do anything he wanted, and since the two of you had been kids, he had always leaned towards the theater or the arts. Theater camp had given him amazing confidence before he hit high school, where his ego doubled, tripled, and quadrupled. Sure, he wasn’t participating in plays at Derry, but you highly doubted that would hinder his ability to snag enrollment to some fancy acting school if he really tried.

Belch had been growing distant since junior year. Sports took up his time more than music took up Patrick’s, and he found less and less time to spend with you and the boys. It made sense. He was talented like Vic was with performing, or how Patrick was with the strumming of a bass or pounding of a drum set. The three of them would go off to do bigger and better things than Derry, that much was set in stone. Belch had come to you since freshman year with help in grades, eager to take a Saturday morning to talk over mathematics or the basic outline for an essay. He worked hard, put in endless amounts of effort, and when he approached the gang early october last year with a possible full ride to state thanks to his leading hand in football, the four of you had clapped him on the back and reminded him that he _deserved it_ , because he truly had.

Patrick was against college. He hated the idea of putting himself through a handful more years of pushing papers and reading textbooks. Senior year was drawing to a close, and he was just barely skirting by with average grades that hardly reflected the true genius behind that thick skull of his. Patrick was smart. He always had been, and always would be. He wasted his time ignoring school work, unaffected by his parents nagging, and not in the least phased with the possibility of failing out of high school until you started whipping him into shape around junior year.

‘ _You don't need to go to college_ , ’ You had told him a ways back, shoveling countless missing works into folders for him to work on later. ‘ _You just need to pass high school. Then do whatever the fuck you want, but until then, stop holding yourself back and just apply yourself._ ’

He had scoffed back then, but then at least made the effort to half ass some school work, earning those average grades despite his latent ability to do so much more.

It always frustrated you that Patrick had tremendous intelligence that he just didn't make use of. He could do so much more, but there would have been little passion behind it. It was when a bass was in his hands or he picked up a pair of drum sticks that he even gave the slightest incentive. Patrick never searched for a band to play in, or encouraged you and the others to make one with him. Playing solo in his bedroom, strumming the thick strings of his basses and pounding along to the beat of some Korn cover was enough to leave him content. Patrick, unlike yourself, didn’t worry about the future.

Henry didn’t either. With shit grades that bordered failing even after countless study sessions, a father who was a godless drunk, and no with real skills to come by, the leader of the bowers gang felt secure in his future as nothing. You saw him there, and leveled with him a bit.

You had good grades. Not as amazing as Vic, not nearly as terrible as Patrick or Henry, but good enough. Solid B’s, with a C or an A thrown in depending on the subject. You knew you were alright with writing and science. History was fine. You hated math (Hello C). You had attended all the camps Vic had. Theater camp, science camp, gymnastics camp. The list went on, but you never exactly became a prominent member of anything you were involved in. A jack of all trades, master of none.

You had sent college applications out months ago, just hoping to cover your basics and holding onto the thought that you would find your true calling in life and a major once you entered college. Vic had already received a few offers, Patrick (thanks to Angela sending applications out in his place) had gotten a letter of acceptance back from a random college just outside of Portland, and Belch was on his full ride to State once the year drew to a close. You however, liken to Henry, had yet to snag a letter from anyone.

The pressure to succeed and enter college, the fear of the unknown as to what would happen to the gang, and your insatiable need to keep your little family together for as long as possible had weighed on you since September when the five of you walked onto the high school campus for your senior year.

There are only so many months left before _POOF_ and they were gone. Sure, you would all talk, agree to meet up once in awhile and reminisce. But at the end of the day, none of you would be returning to your childhood rooms and wake up to see another the very next day.

The routine would be gone by the end of summer. Vic and Belch would be in colleges, far away. Henry would be stuck in Derry, working the farm or maybe an odd job. There was no telling what wild card bullshit Patrick would pull once it came down to it, and you were clueless as to how you would end up, where you would end up, or what you would be doing once that last sweltering summer day in Derry came to an end.

This was why it wasn’t fair that you had to share that last year with Carly. Henry was just as lost as you, just as confused and just as hopeless. He was your crutch for the future, the one who was left with that same quaking void you faced. It was only logical you were pushing for him to come back, to be preoccupied with the guys and you instead of some girl who had a future that was brighter than the sun. She would be gone once her letters for Harvard or Duke came in the mail, and you would be left to pick up the pieces of Henry Bowers once the shit hit the fan.

You knew it was the future to come. Even if your charade with Patrick fell apart and the two of you had to play breakup, it was still inevitable that Carly Henderson would drop Henry like a rock and run off somewhere far and unreachable for the poor farm boy to grasp. It wasn’t fair you had to share Henry, yes, but _fuck_ , it wasn’t fair that you had to watch him fall for this girl that was just going to tear his heart to pieces and stomp across what was left over. Henry was cruel, heinous, and broken, but he didn't deserve to be strung along like he was, and it struck a chord in you to watch the mess unfold in front of your eyes without being able to stop it at a moment's notice.

 

A hand came to rest along the back of your neck, long fingers pushing strands from there as fingertips brushed the bare skin and caught your attention.

“You cool?” Came a velvety voice, one that melted the anxiety and hurt away as Patrick wove his fingers into your hair and softly pulled your head to the side, leading it to gently rest against his denim clad shoulder.

“I’m cool.” You replied hoarsely, smacking your lips together and still tasting that awful salt rim from before. You chased it with another gulp of your punch, but it didn’t do the trick, forcing you to resolve that you would be stuck with the taste until later.

Vic pushed up from the couch, smacking your knee playfully with a tilt to his lips. “Come on lovebirds. Let's go find our missing dipshits. Beer pong can’t be the only fucking thing they do tonight, I want to snap a few pics of us and upload them to Insta or my Snapchat.”

Heaving your seperate sighs, Patrick and you rose, a slim arm thrown around your waist while you dutifully followed after Vic, his blond hair complementing a halo as he wandered through crowds and chugged the contents of his cup.

The bass of the music shook Ryan’s house while your trio drifted back to the dining room, the music straining for your attention and oddly causing a bit of a flickering dizziness. It was too loud now it seemed, probably in chaste comparison to the muffled and far off voice it had carried when you were sitting in the much quieter den. You shrugged it off, leaning in to Patrick’s hold while he eased you into the room with beer kegs and drunk high schoolers, the beer pong championship still in its infancy for the evening.

Everything seemed the same, though Ryan and the ebony haired Donnie were buzzed in time with their new nameless teammate, Dylan missing from the picture this time around. Belch’s cheeks were stained fuschia, his grin wide and eyes a tad glazed. Drunk, and maybe a bit high if you were to assume the musty smell in the air did in fact belong to some choice pot. It was up to you or Patrick to drive everyone home tonight, apparently.

Henry was significantly less intoxicated, but all too loose to be considered for the role of designated driver. There was still a sharpness to his eyes, matching a brash grin that broadened once a ping pong ball landed in his solo cup and he was forced to drink, the snatch of the cup vicious while he downed its contents in seconds.

You were a bit surprised to see Carly by his side, not partaking in much of the drinking, but appearing very involved in what went on around her. She cheered alongside the others of the room, clapping when Henry trashed the cup into the expanse of the room, and planted a kiss on his sweaty cheek.

“Ay!” Vic shouted, announcing his arrival with a crass call, catching his friends shared attention easily as he parked himself beside them. “Lets go dance, you fuckers! Stop dicking around in here. Come on!”

“Give us a hot minute, Vic.” Henry waved him off, smearing the wetness of his lips against the ratty bandana tied at his wrist while you and Patrick came to stand behind Vic. “Hockstetter, get back here. Belch’s been taking your hits, and we’re losing fast.”

“I ain’t in the mood.” Patrick replied tartly, eyes switching from Carly to Henry before they were halted in place by Henry’s blazing hues, having caught the exchange instantly.

“Did I ask if you wanted to?” Henry challenged, sliding a hand from his girlfriend's arm and down past the curve of her shoulder to rest on the small of her back. He ushered Carly forward to stand beside Vic, her grey eyes blinking in confusion. “Carly wanted to dance earlier. Vic and [First Name] can take her to dance while we finish up here and then meet up after the game. Everyone wins.”

‘ _No one is winning here, Asshole_ .’ You so desperately want to snap back, but you obediently stepped away from Patrick, tugging his jacket closer to yourself and giving Carly a lazy look as your ‘boyfriend’ stuffed his fists into his own jacket and mutters a grated ‘ _Fine_ ’.

Vic sighed in response, whirling to face you and nodding towards the exit, knowing it was unwise and useless to argue once Henry had stated his rule. “Lets go girls. Daddy’s got some game to unleash on the dance floor, try to keep up.”

Carly ran a hand through her long hair, casting a glance over her shoulder before accepting her fate and falling in step behind Vic. You went to follow, but the clear of Henry’s throat brought your attention to him instead.

He held your gaze for just a moment, baby blue eyes staring you down before a jerk of his chin gave you final dismissal, his silent order to once again _behave_ not going unnoticed. You clapped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze in farewell. He was sure to have more fun than you would, but the action probably helped ease is irritation at least a little bit.

You caught up with your wandering teens soon enough after tossing your mostly finished drink into a trash, the noise from the living room just as jarring as it had been in the hallways, though the dizziness from earlier was muted by your heavily vexed state. You had made Patrick Vic’s babysitter, and now Henry was forcing you to be Carly’s. It was karma in laughable portions.

Rihanna’s siren song serenaded the three of you to the center of the living room, the sweaty masses of fellow teens creating a humid and uncomfortable fog to descend across the dance floor, but it didn't seem to phase anyone participating in the festivities in the slightest.  Vic was the first to drop his worries and participate, hitting the beat with his expert moves and rolling his hips to and fro without a care. Carly joined in, a little robotic at first, but easing into her own rhythm that complemented the fast pace well enough.

You bit down your annoyance, allowing a nagging sigh to escape you before lifting your arms, falling in step to Vic’s dancing and often times mirroring his own moves. Like before, they weren’t as perfect or nearly as fluid as the blond’s, but they did the job and worked you hard. You chased the highs and lows of the music, doing your best to flash the odd girl out a token smile, faking reassurance that she wasn’t the nuisance you knew her to be. Carly drove as hard as the two of you did, her skin picking up a glisten of sweat, breathing hardening and pupils blown wide with excitement.

She was a good dancer, and you hated to admit it. Perfect hair, perfect grades, and now, perfect moves.

You panted an angry breath from your thoughts, dancing beside Vic and rolling your head to the side, exposing that flank of neck that blossomed red and pink, grinding your teeth together. You knew eyes were on your little trio, more focused on Vic than anyone else, but you had only eyes for Carly. Someone in the crowd held eyes for you, but you paid them no mind, too caught up in your jealousy, too blindsided by the wave of heat and lightheadedness that racked your body once you threw your head to the side to notice them at all.

Songs came and went, the tail end of a Kesha single leaving Vic breathless and beaming.

“Be back, I’m grabbing some more shit.” He clapped a hand on your shoulder, talking loudly over the music and shaking you a bit with his departure. You attempted to argue, but before you knew it, he had disappeared in the swarm of teens and left you by your lonesome, stuck to show Carly a good time in his stead.

You blew strands of sweaty from from your face, pushing them back behind your ear and slowing your moves, allowing a bit of a break. A heavy bass hung in the air, blasting off and on as Lil Peep rapped nonsense lyrics, your legs carrying you sloppily to the back of the room, towards the fireplace and away from the moshing madness.

“You alright?”

You exhaled sharply, not having expected her to follow, but turned to face Carly as she pulled her hair up into a sleek ponytail, her eyes bright despite the hard look you presented her with.

“Y...Yeah.” You forced out, frowning instantly when you heard the lethargic tone in your voice. Your tongue felt a bit too thick and heavy in your mouth, causing you to smack your lips.

Her brows pinch together, Carly suddenly going from an exhilarated grin to a worried frown.

“[First Name], you okay?” She insisted to ask you again, earning a nastier glare than before. A perfectly manicured hand came to reach for you, but you stepped back with stumble, grabbing purchase on Ryan’s fireplace with a suddenly shaky hand.

“I said I’m fucking fine!” You snapped, but even as the clarification left you, you felt the defensive words weren’t your own. Laced with a snarl, they weren’t the careful words you knew to choose around Carly, but unsure and disrespectful ones. Somewhere over the slight panic your realization brought, you hoped Carly wouldn’t end up storming back to Henry later and tattle on you over this.

“[First Name]. Hey, you’re all wobbly. How much did you drink?” Carly caught you by the elbow just as you attempted to inch further back, catching you as your knees tried to buckle.

“Fucking… Not much?” You fought to focus, and suddenly there was no Carly, no music, no sweaty and disgusting teenagers, just a snippet of black. You came back just as instantly as you had left, but if you weren’t panicking before, you sure as hell were now. You blinked feverishly, finding an angelic face hovering just above over own, an arm herding you through the crowd that barely cared to part.

Carly’s mouth formed words, but you barely heard them, and seeing her lips part and shape for them hardly helped either.

Bathroom.

She said the word in between hundreds upon thousands of others and you numbly nodded, allowing her to drive you down a few halls before arriving to surroundings that were slightly familiar. Your back hit a wall and Carly’s grip eased as she nervously glanced up around her.

“Stay here. I’m getting Vic.”

You shook your head, aware of curious stares from the bathroom line, selfish teens unwilling to give up a chance to take a piss so you could make it to the semi-safety of a bathroom. You felt like you were going to show a porcelain throne your pancakes from this morning or the pizza you had for lunch, but that wouldn’t be a good reason for any of them to allow you to cut, and you knew it.

“No.” You slurred, catching Carly’s sleeve as she helped you sit along the wall.

“I need to get someone-”

“Patrick.” You cut her off, feeling that gross weightless sensation from when you sucked too hard on a reefer cigarette and buzzed through a high, but also catching the heavy burn of alcohol in your stomach from getting drunk. “I want…’Trick..”

“Okay, I’ll be back. Don’t move.” She assured you, and took off, smacking shoulders as more bodies came to stand in line for the bathroom.

You sat there, jumping in and out of a conscious state, the hall narrowing and growing too quiet or too loud with the slightest cough or mutter from the people who surrounded you. Hyper sensitive, uncomfortable with the crawling of your skin, and feeling faint, you were suddenly reminded of the restroom a few halls away. Most likely vacant, with a surely shorter line than this bullshit.

It took an unsteady shove of your hands, a smack against the wall to balance yourself, but after a bit of a fight, you were standing. The people behind you shuffled to take your place or pass you a sympathetic glance as you wandered away, stumbling in and out of party goers ways while dragging yourself through thicker parts of the party, but eventually emerging through the worst of it in the furthest hall of Ryan’s house. No one resided in the hall to your muted appreciation, and once you made it past a few wrong doors, you found the unlocked bathroom door which had been left ajar.

You spilled into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind you and dropping to bend over the granite sink, smacking the knobs around, twisting and turning them to find cold water. You had no idea how hot you had been until the cool water splashed against your face, the relief instantaneous- so drastic from your feverish skin that you swore you heard a sizzle from the water steaming upon contact.

Shoveling handfuls of water into your mouth, you smacked droplets against the flesh of your neck and dropped Patricks jacket to the countertop, so warm and dizzy that you felt suffocated within its hold. It was no longer an armor to the outside world, but a prison for this suffocating heat that choked a thick hand round your throat even after you tossed the article of clothing aside, burying your conscious once more and forcing you to drop.

Chilly tile cooled your sweaty cheek once you came to again, eyelids fluttering and head pounding now. Your limbs felt like they were weighed down with sand, flimsy and useless, your drop to the floor proving you had used the last of your strength indefinitely. Vaguely, you heard the hiss of the faucet and the creak of the bathroom door cracking open, your world spinning and head almost too heavy, but you instilled what little control you had in your body to roll it to face the doorway, the lithe form of a predator looming high as they shut the door behind them.

Your first instinct, your first hope, was that it was Patrick.

But they weren’t clad in a denim jacket, and their eyes weren’t glassy grey-green, but dark pits that raked your crumpled form with a disturbing appetite, forcing a weak snarl from your lips in defense as you kicked and shuffled backwards slowly, ending up at the other end of the sink and nearing the tub.

“Go away.”

They laughed under their breath, actually laughed, and strolled forward to bend down to your level, the knees of their jeans ripped and frayed. Their streaky black nails picked at the tears before allowing their hands to rest on your ankle and catching it in a vice grip.

“You should’a paid more attention to your drink, babe.” They hummed, tugging you forward and narrowing their eyes with a vicious sense of malice. “And been less of a bitch. Your little boy toys sent me to the emergency room, had to get stitches and an x-ray.”

Slowly, you focused on their features, the box dyed hair, their medusa piercing and crooked grin. Grant stared down at you, fixating on the erratic rise and fall of your chest and tilting his head to the side while pursing his lips. He took a pause that lasted a lifetime, burning the moment into his memory before he spoke again.

“Not so superior down there on the floor, are ya, babe? Drugged up,” He hooked a hand under the edge of your shirt, hiking it up without a thought and exposing a cup of your bra, seeming to admire the color and style while trailing fingertips along the hemline as you gave a feeble attempt to roll from him, only to have his grip on your ankle switch to a bruising hold on your hip. “Weak. Pathetic. Ripe for the taking.”

The faucet remained on, muffling his monologue, as well as the opening of the bathroom door. He continued, unaware of another person hovering in the doorway, your sense of reality warping already. Was it one of his friends? Was it a goddamn angel of death? Someone eager to join in?

Who cared. All you knew, before succumbing to the bleak darkness and smothering heat, was that you wished you had just fucking stayed home.

* * *

Patrick still remembered the first time he set eyes on the Bowers Gang Queen. Back then, in the late fall of eighth grade, she had just been the Princess, the only girl and the seemingly only logical one residing in Henry Bower’s little ragtag crew. He didn't care much for her then, this sly eyed girl who was joined to the hip of the then brunette Victor Criss- before he discovered the wonders of bleach blond hair and came to the realization that blonds did in fact tend to have it better in comparison to those with darker shades.

She followed the boys diligently, band aids and neosporin tubes shoved into the pockets of her backpack, ready to their inevitable use. Henry had just begun to bud into his more physical ways, his fists flying at a moments notice, something that had drawn the lanky boy of adolescence to him.

Patrick was quiet back then, nearly silent. He had no reason to speak, just smack his ruler and dust a twitching body of an almost dead fly into a nice little pencil case along with its brethren corpses. No one wanted to speak to him, why would they? The creepy kid with shaggy unkempt hair, glassy eyes that saw too much, holding a voice too velvety and charming to belong to a boy of sixteen certainly unnerved those around him. He had been held back because of academics, because of his cruel but arbitrary actions - ones that made his transcripts all the messier for future teachers to read - and because he just didn’t have the whim to care.

He had no friends. He had a fridge, kept secret between stacks of dilapidated trash and rusty treasures, his safe haven in a junkyard that no one had breathed life into in decades. Some old crotchy fuck paid the dues on the land and locks the gates, but made no other efforts to secure the yard, thus making it the perfect secluded home for a boy who was a blossoming psychopath.

Patrick wasn’t an idiot. He knew what he was. His first therapist, one his mother had sent him to for all of two months before he threw a fit and convinced his mother it wasn't worth the effort to force the visits on him, had even discussed his true nature.

Devoid of empathy. Cruel. Indifferent.

There were many ways to describe the young Hockstetter boy, and by god, his therapist pulled every single one out of his ass and presented them to his mother.

He made friends to throw her off, if he was being truly honest. Being part of a community, a clique, a group of friends, or joining peers, was something his mother had always wanted for him. So, to tame her fears of her son growing up to be a emotionless shell of a killer, he joined the bowers gang.

At first, he just hovered by the edge of the friend group. Henry was the one who interested him the most, this unfiltered husk of rage, a boy with too little in his life to lose, a loose canon with fists that struck victims with deadly accuracy. Patrick quite liked him.

Belch was as dumb as a Derry-bred country boy came. A follower, not a leader, and happy to take commands from Henry. Patrick thought he was overly friendly in comparison to Victor or [First Name], but wasn’t bothered by his presence. After all, if things went south, it was easy to blame a soft hearted beast with heavy hands and a stupid mouth than a attractive charming snake like himself.

Victor presented issues within moments of meeting. He didn’t look for Henry’s approval, but the girl at his side’s. Narrowed brown eyes scrutinized him, ripping away that calm demeanor Patrick always presented, and saw a flash of what laid underneath. It took a while for either Patrick or Vic to be on friendly terms, but eventually, they got there.

The girl, however, that spoiled princess, was a fickle little thing. She kept her distance at first, but by the middle of eighth grade, after Patrick had wrapped one too many curious arms around her waist and dared to test boundaries, she had dropped ignorance and flipped around to bite back.

“ _I’m not a piece of ass, Hockstetter._ ” She had snapped, and all he had done was watch her with bemused expression, because to him, yes, she was that. A future slut to pass around the gang once all the boys realized the opportunity they had in their hands. She could be their pillow princess, their girl to pound out the frustrations of high school into and pretend to dote on.

She was a toy in his eyes back then, and she knew it too.

Freshman year arrived, and it was then [First Name] stepped up to the plate where the others lacked. The boys were fine to leave the off putting Patrick to his own devices, to allow him to loom in the background and simply observe. She, however, refused to allow him that peace.

Biking to his house with Vic in tow, she would drag him out of his house to arrive to school on time, traded music interests, and made efforts to talk to him. Sure, he left her waiting on his answers for days, or didn’t answer at all, but she tried- and that was admirable in the very least.

Lunches meant sitting at her side, sharing cigarettes and spacing out as she discussed the dull happenings of her life. It bored him sometimes, she rarely had good stories outside of her parents strained marriage and issues with her more authoritative mother. He could level with her there, against her mother and his ever doting Angela Hockstetter. When she stepped into the threshold of his home, her adventurous mask meant for Derry was replaced with a politeness to his mother that had once reviled his own.

Angela adored this studious girl, her perfect speech, her pretty little face.

Patrick, once Freshman year had ended, had grown less indifferent towards her too.

Summer had been a blast, Belch getting his vocational licence and letting everyone pile into his old man’s pristine Trans-Am, allowing the gang a freedom to torment that was truly unrelenting. Sundays were less tiring once she joined him for the off visit to his church service. Tame Sunday blouses and jeans had never looked so good, so innocent and refined on the normally dressed down girl. She pulled her hair up, pinned it back, or left it loose. After mass, she dined with his family, and the two of them would break from his stuffy parents to meet up with the guys at the rock quarry for a swim.

[First Name] brought horror novels to what became weekly bonfires on Belch’s property, books Patrick would have otherwise left to collect dust on his own shelves were read aloud as she sat all of them down and forced a campfire novel to unravel while the nights buzzed with the hum of cicadas and the wind rustled tree limbs for a perfect spooky ambiance.

She sat beside him in the Trans-Am, bought him CDs she thought he would like, and collected eclectic looking silver rings for his nimble fingers to wear.

Sophomore year, he recalled that he enjoyed the way they glittered and glistened with blood when he wailed on an unfortunate nerd.

Slowly, he found himself reciprocating the exchange. She had spent freshman year chasing after him in the halls, but now it was him who put a bit more effort into his stride to catch up. Little things began to remind him of her. The odd trip to the principal’s office allowed him to glance through the lost and found, where he snagged woolen scarves, cool pins or otherwise forgotten accessories for her. As his father's coin collection dwindled and he began to shadow her life, he realized she was his favored in the gang.

Vic and Belch were spirits roaming through his existence. There, but not necessary. Henry was a spiteful brat, full of shock value and a childish rage that excited him, but in the end it was [First Name] that he truly enjoyed.

She wasn’t frightened of him. He possessed a titan's strength in his gangly limbs, was aroused by the depravity of the world around him, and seeked the dark rather than the light, but she had yet to shy away from him. Philosophical rants were useless with her, explaining his true ideals under the guise of a high warranted nothing but a scoff from the girl.

That following summer, he advanced quietly. Possessive and obsessive, her calendar was filled with himself or the gang. Nearly everyday, they were face to face, his fingertips grazing her arms or pushing strands of hair from her eyes. He lingered, complementing her where he could and encompassing her surroundings rather easily. His mother called it a crush, he wanted to laugh at that when he heard her assumption.

Patrick Hockstetter did not love. He barely held affection. He did not have ‘crushes’. Simply obsessions.

[First Name] had always been open to him. She shared secrets between clove cigarettes, romped through his bed for a nap when she pleased, and confessed her worries even when unprompted. He appreciated this weakness in her, it made it easier to probe, to prod past what she was normally willing to divulge with the others.

It was during a weekend of her absence that he finally realized he somewhat cared for her. She and Vic had left him and the others to join their parents for a weekend in Portland, forcing the leftovers on Patrick’s plate, much to his disdain.

He didn’t want to watch Henry pull the trigger on his dad’s old hand gun to shatter old empty beer bottles, or listen to Belch burp the alphabet after downing a six pack in the wilderness behind his house. Fucking around with them left much to be desired, and as much as he could fake his laughter and pretend to be part of their meaningless conversation, he still checked his phone every few minutes in hopes his real source of entertainment had messaged him.

It was comical. Two days of her silence, and he had about lost his mind.

When she arrived the following days later, souvenirs in her hands and sporting a new pair of sunglasses, he knew he should have been revolted by the instant relief he felt. Instead, he took what she had bought for him (A freshly printed t shirt of the Deftones she had found in a merch shop, a new silver ring, and a wacky flavored sucker) and followed her around for the day, barely leaving her side. He needed her to recharge, to center himself, and that left him at a bit of a loss.

He decided then to consider her his ‘Best Friend’.

The best of his friends, the one he gave a damn about. Her presence brought him a calmness he had only ever gathered from visiting his long forgotten fridge, and so he decided she was his.

 **_His_ ** best friend. The girl who waltzed into his home as if it was hers, the girl who fell asleep on his bed and was unaware of lingering eyes, or the way he treasured her.

To Patrick she was something, and by the time his reinstated therapy and meds were forced down his throat, he had already thought about the possibility of her being real.

Being real though, was a load to carry. Not only for herself, but for him too. He had decided long ago she wasn’t a threat, but a balance. She was his to look after, to help guide, to _control_ in many aspects, otherwise, what would happen if her existence was snuffed out? What would happen if the girl meant to balance him was suddenly... Erased?

This other possibly real person, roaming through his world, unaware of what she meant. If she died, or was harmed, how could he cope then?

All those memories, those thoughts he had holed up inside himself and kept hidden for years, whirled through his mind when the delicate hand of Carly Henderson burned the skin of his forearm, where the sleeves of his denim jacket had been rolled up to expose his array of tattoos. She had arrived alone, panicked and sweaty.

No Vic in sight. No [First Name] to scornfully glare from the corners of her eyes at the frazzled girl.

“What?” He snapped, shaking her grip from his arm in an instant. There were six people who could touch him in the world, his friends, and his parents. No one else had the honor unless he advanced first.

Henry glanced back at the exchange, Belch barking laughter at something Ryan Burns had yelled from across the makeshift beer pong table.

She licked her lips, a nervous tick he knew all too well. Something was off, and without a beat left to pass between them, Patrick straightened his back and loomed high above, suddenly far too intimidating to be facing his friend’s girlfriend.

“Where’s [First Name].” A demand. Not a question.

“S-she’s by the bathroom line. Shes drunk or something-”

Henry frowned, Patrick’s memory racking up the total of alcoholic drinks [First Name] had drank that night, coming to a grand total of one.

“She’s not drunk.” Patrick shoved the sleeves of his jacket down, pushing past the now babbling messenger he no longer had a need for.

“Where’s Vic?” Henry asked, taking Carly’s wrist when she attempted to follow, Patrick pausing the slightest to hear his whereabouts.

Belch, now aware there was something afoot, blinked sluggishly and faced the others, mouthing a useless question of his own. “Whats going on?”

“Vic went to get drinks. [First Name] and I were dancing a little after he left and suddenly her knees buckled and stuff, she had to hold on to the fireplace to stand up straight and was totally out of it. If she's not drunk, I don't know what she is? High?” Carly hurried past Patrick with Henry in tow, beer pong now forgotten by all the boys as what was left of the bowers gang began to leave in a rush.

“She's not high,” Henry shook his head furiously, reaching around and steering Belch towards the front door. “Somethin’s fucking wrong, Babe. She don’t smoke at parties, too much of a lightweight. She barely drinks around people too. Belch, get Amy running. I’ll grab Vic. Carly go show Patrick-”

But Patrick was already ahead of them, slipping between grinding couples and focused on his mental map of Ryan’s house, intent on getting to [First Name] before the others. Henry called out deftly for him, but he had already dipped too far into the crowd to hear or care. He had to find her, and he knew that Henry was indeed right.

[First Name] didn’t get high with anyone else but her closest friends. She hardly chased her punch with much liquor at parties, and there was no way in hell she would get tipsy at a rager like Ryan’s party was turning out to be. Something was wrong, and the paranoia of what could be unfolding without his knowledge was enough to earn those who blocked his path harsh shoves and wordless glares.

The line to the bathroom was found quickly enough, those who stood around in wait flinching at his arrival, his pupils blown and mouth curled in a snarl.

He cut the line, smacking a hand against the wooden door. “[First Name]! You in there?”

The response was feminine, but the startled voice didn’t belong to his friend. He whirled around, aware she wasn’t in line herself, and snatched the closest collar to him.

It was some freshman twerp, his back slamming against the wall too harshly with a shove of Patrick’s arm that it elated a pained cry.

“[Full Name]. You seen her?” The cloth of the freshmans t shirt twisted in his grip, closing much of the air to his windpipe with the action.

“Wan...Wandered off.” He choked, sucking in short gasps of air.

“She went that way-” The boy’s friend added quickly, pointing beyond the row of terrified teens, all of whom dropped their eyes to the hardwood floor once Patrick turned to follow his directions.

His departure was wordless, rushed and a tad frantic. Where the fuck could she have gone? That idiot. That fucking-

Over the music, past the blaring nonsensical lyrics that were a buzz in his ears, he remembered it. [First Name] had brought Vic to a private bathroom a while back so he could puke up his guts in solitude, so he could be alone and comforted by his close friends. She valued privacy, and would have hated to be at the bad end of impatient teens waiting to grab their turn to take a piss. It would make sense for her to wander off, especially if there was a whole other half the house to explore, and much to his luck, he knew there was.

Shoving past others, indifferent to their indignant shouts and muttered curses, he ran past the kitchen, the living room, and through endless crowds. Somewhere around the dance floor, he had picked up a useless accomplice.

“Henry said-”

“I don’t care.” Patrick shouted pointedly over the music, snarling his words with as much ferocity to his tag along as possible. Carly, despite meaning the best, shrank back once they turned down a blissfully empty hall. The music was muffled, walls existing between multiple rooms to create a barrier that made it no place to party.

It was isolated. A perfect place for Patrick’s missing person to run to for sanctuary.

Carly made a move to speak, but the raising of a his hand silenced her, the hall lit by dim ceiling lights, with closed doors holding darkened cracks. Except for one single door with slight illumination underneath its door.

He strode forward, picking up the hiss of a faucet and the muted mutterings of someone beyond the door. Carly followed dutifully behind, and he twisted the knob without hesitation, the door creaking the slightest once it opened, revealing a scene that froze his blood in its tracks.

“Pathetic. _Ripe for the taking_ …”

The boy’s words trailed off, the eyelids of his victim’s fluttering shut, the heels of her palms which hand kept her slightly upright driving from the tile and falling limply, along with the rest of her body. She crumpled, defenseless and unconscious, her partially exposed chest rising and falling erratically as uneven pants left her.

[First Name].

“Oh my god,” Carly gasped from behind him, the words weak and full of pity.

They brought Patrick back into the moment, as well as startling the teen who hovered dangerously above [First Name]. The boy whipped his head back, attempting to stand but falling flat on his ass with the weak attempt. He scooted back, aware of Patrick’s presence and the hollow stare he bore down on him.

“Fuck- It’s, it’s, not what it-”

Patrick closed the distance with mechanical strides, and the boy cowered back. A pathetic sound left him, something like a whimper and a wordless plea of mercy, before ringed fingers clamped around his throat and drug him up from the tile floor.

As if he was a ragdoll, Patrick threw him against the sink with the simplest advantages of his strength. The granite edge caught his temple, causing a satisfying crack to ripple through the air and forcing him to fall back to the floor with a strangled cry of pain. Patrick whirled to follow the boy as he gritted his teeth, snatching him by the strands of his uneven choppy mess of a haircut, hauling him up to the height of the sink, forcing him to his feet once more.

“I’m sorry-” Came a terrified cry, one Patrick cut off and smothered in its infancy with a malicious slam of his face against the countertop.

The snap of his nose came, spurts of ruby red drenching his lips and chin as it flowed out of his nostrils incessantly. Patrick snarled at the sight. It was painful, he knew, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

Another strike against the counter, his nails dragging into the thin skin of the predators scalp and clawing deep. He twisted the strands, shoved the boy’s head forward for a new style of impact, and threw his blooded face against the granite once more.

Teeth shattered. Bits and pieces, shards really, of the boy’s teeth falling down the drain along with the pink tinged water from the mix of faucet water and fast flowing dribbles of blood, streaks of red flowing in time with his bleeding mouth and nose.

Patrick drug his blunt nails across his victims face, divioting into the flesh and forcing him to meet his gaze. Front teeth missing, endless more broken and pouring fountains of blood, Patrick gripped him by the strands of his hair and tip of the chin.

“I will kill you.” He spoke calmly, too calmly for a man who had just bashed a boys face into a sink and turned it to a pale imitation of the massacre he wished he could have painted in that bathroom that night. “Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But I will find you again after tonight, and I will snuff you out.”

His voice dipped into a cruel purr, excitedly baring his teeth and allowing his facade to drop. The monster in him reared its ugly head, eager to play and rip the boy’s throat out. He had a knife in his pocket, he could end it then and there. His fingers left the blood matted locks of the terrified would-be rapist, wrapping them firmly around his throat and squeezing tight, constricting the airflow.

“I will kill you.” Patrick promised again, delighted in the horror he witnessed in his victims eyes. “And I will make you suffer much worse than what you’ve experienced tonight.”

He tightened the grip, pushing his rings to cut off the air completely, leaving the boy to gasp deliriously and attempt to claw for his throat and hit his attacker’s body. His actions were useless, the daft blows meaningless to the body of a god, and before much of a fight could be put up, his eyes rolled skyward and shut.

Patrick stepped back, dropping the body and wiping the carnal expression off his face almost effortlessly. Carly stood, frozen in the doorway with eyes wide and clouded with terror, unable to tear herself from the back of Patrick Hockstetter as he bent over the form of his friend and rolled her shirt back down to cover the exposed skin of her stomach and bra.

Gently, as if she was made of glass, Patrick collected her in his long arms, turning and facing Carly, the tiniest flecks of blood tickling the edge of his jaw.

“Move.”

And so she did, allowing Patrick to pass without issue and storm down the hall. Her manicured hands scooped up his forgotten leather jacket, tossing one last glance to the collapsed form of Grant Werner before shutting the bathroom door behind her and rushing after the retreating form of Patrick Hockstetter.


End file.
